


a universe hesitant to grant us grace

by higgsbosonblues



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: 2018 season, Angst, Drunk Sex, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Photography, Slow Burn, Very vague Mitch/Jev, i am full time jeandre trash now, it's easy to be canon-compliant when the canon is this compliant, mentions of André/OFC, past disordered eating, voyeurism a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-06-10 00:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15279894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsbosonblues/pseuds/higgsbosonblues
Summary: Enough people tell Jean-Éric that he and André are going to be best friends that he just sort of accepts it before they've even been properly introduced.--They start off as teammates, and it escalates fast.





	1. Valencia - Testing

**Author's Note:**

> Afjkdsla. This started off life as something else which has now become the middle of a much longer fic (i.e. this) which I have written entirely back-asswards and over a period of weeks and really I don't know where it's going or what it is, other than an extended love letter to their sweet, strange little dynamic. It's probably full of factual inconsistencies and canon handwaving because my FE fandom hasn't been as intense as my F1 fandom until recently. End disclaimer. (Also, my French is bad so please feel free to correct it if it's needed.)
> 
> A warning that later parts will contain some references to (past) disordered eating so if that's not something you want to read, feel free to click away now (I'll put another cw up for the specific chapter). 
> 
> I have [a tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hypersofts) now! It's mostly motorsports fandom nonsense and some personal wobbling. 
> 
> Title from Justice Aversion by Smog

Enough people tell Jean-Éric that he and André are going to be best friends that he just sort of accepts it before they've even been properly introduced.

He knows _of_ André, of course; his reputation in endurance racing precedes him, and Jev has taken enough of an interest in WEC over the past few years to have been introduced to him a few times, knows him enough to nod and say hi if they happen to pass in the pit lane. They've had a few conversations over the years, but nothing much to speak of.

It's actually a little bit of a surprise to Jev that someone like André would consider Formula E at all. Lotterer strikes him as a petrolhead, someone who would sneer at electric vehicles as a general concept. It's probably true to say that none of the Formula E drivers are there as a first choice; Jev reads his social media comments enough to know that it's seen in certain circles as the graveyard of failed F1 wannabes. He hopes that's not how André sees it. He knows it's hypocritical, but he can't help it: he doesn't want to be anyone’s second choice.

It's October in Valencia but it's still hot and sunny, blissful after the freezing and damp London winter he's come from. André is sun-warm and smells of sweat and cigarette smoke when he clasps Jean-Éric’s hand and introduces himself. Jev greets him in English, habit more than anything else now when meeting new people, and André gives him a curious glance but answers him in the same tongue.

Jean-Éric is overtired after a stupidly early flight and a little bit shy, which always seems to manifest itself as standoffishness, an unfortunate habit he can't seem to break. He keeps a wary distance from André at first, content to perch on one of the fold-out seats in the garage and watch André running his hands over the new car, mapping out its contours.

“Pretty sexy, huh?” André says, craning his neck to smile at Jev over his shoulder, patting the car’s sidepod. He has a very nice smile, Jean-Éric notices with a kind of sinking feeling. Very nice indeed.

He shrugs, smiles back. “Pretty sexy,” he agrees. André raises an eyebrow at him in a way that suggests something vaguely obscene, although Jean-Éric isn't sure what that might be. He holds André’s gaze, and André actually fucking _giggles_ , a high pitched laugh that shows all his teeth. Jev gazes at him, bemused, not quite sure what to make of his new teammate. He knows Lotterer’s reputation as a playboy; he wasn’t quite prepared to be the target of the flirtation, assumed he would be hiding his bisexuality in the face of macho bravado. Nothing about Lotterer is quite what he expected.

“You know,” André says, straightening up and wandering over to sit down next to Jev, “I wasn't sure about the whole Formula E thing at first. The first gen cars were ugly, the whole thing seemed like some awful worthy political bullshit to prove a point…” He trails off and tilts his head, considering the car sat in front of them. Outside, the camera crew that's meant to be filming their first laps in the new car bustle about with thick coiled wires and tripods, shouting down the pit lane. “But actually, this is exciting. I'm excited.”

Jean-Éric glances at him sideways, still cautious. “I heard you signed a contract without trying the car out first,” he says, and André nods. “That's brave.”

“Brave as in impressive or brave as in stupid?” André asks, and there's that smile again. It makes the skin around his eyes crinkle up, his dimples showing.

“Well,” Jev says, hopping down off the chair and going to find his race suit. “I guess you'll find out soon enough, won't you?”

 

André gets out of the car grinning, his eyes glittering when he takes his helmet and balaclava off. Jev is in the garage, already dressed in jeans and t-shirt after finishing his stint, watching André struggle to adapt to the slower, lighter car.

“Like it?” Jev asks, watching André tear at the collar of his race suit.

“I do,” André says. “I like it a lot.” He's still grinning as he walks past to debrief the engineers. He pauses when he reaches Jev, catches his elbow. “Hey, let’s get a drink after this is done, yeah? Have a proper chat.”

Jev glances down to where André’s hand is still wrapped around his arm, the palm damp with sweat. “Sure,” he says. “That would be nice.”

André gives his arm another little squeeze and winks before he disappears, stripping his race suit down to his waist as he goes. Jean-Éric feels slightly bewildered. He can't quite get a read on the older man, that shy beaming smile and casual petting, the faintly sleazy edge tempered with something earnest and sweet. He watches André’s back as he chats to the technical staff, chewing at his thumbnail. As if he can feel Jean-Éric’s gaze, André turns to look at him, just a quick glance and a friendly smile before he turns back to the engineers. Jev blinks a little, pulls himself together, gets up to find his sunglasses and phone.

 

He's expecting them to go for coffee or maybe beers, but they end up at a relatively fancy cocktail bar, drinking negronis, André picking at a bowl of rosemary-coated mixed nuts placed on the bar between them. Jean-Éric finds himself relaxing quickly in André’s company. Partly it's the tranquillising effect of the cocktails, which are so strongly medicinal they make his mouth numb halfway through the second glass, but also André is just remarkably easy to talk to. They start off talking about racing, progressing to cars in general, André pulling out his phone to show Jev photos of his extensive classic car collection, and from then on to photography.

André is funny, sharp and sarcastic and occasionally outrageously rude in a way that has Jean-Éric sniggering into his drink, and after three cocktails, Jev thinks he might be in love. He's also hammered, he knows, because his command of English has deteriorated to the point where André has to keep asking him to repeat himself.

“How are you not drunk?” Jev says finally, frustrated, laughing, sliding slightly on his stool. André puts a hand on his thigh to steady him and Jean-Éric spills a little of his drink. André’s eyes are trained on the splashes of liquid that cling to the tiny hairs on the back of his hand.

“Parce que j'avais beaucoup plus de pratique que toi,” André says without missing a beat, and Jean-Éric snorts laughter, switches to French and mostly restrains himself from making fun of André’s pronunciation.

It's nearly midnight when they leave the bar and Jean-Éric _knows_ he's going to regret this tomorrow when he wakes up with a headache, but he can't bring himself to care. André slips an arm through his as they leave, as natural as can be, and Jev is still mostly capable of walking in a straight line so he thinks it’s not just that André is worried about him walking into traffic. He has his shirtsleeves rolled up and the press of his skin against Jev’s feels nice, the thick hair covering his arm pleasantly scratchy. The streets are mostly deserted and they walk back to the hotel slowly, André producing a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and lighting two, pressing one into Jean-Éric’s mouth with a practised gesture. He knows he shouldn't be touching, _letting himself_ be touched like this, can't bring himself to stop.

They're on the same floor of the hotel, at different ends of the corridor, and André squeezes his shoulder as they stand in the hallway. “This was fun,” he says. “I think we're gonna have a good year.”

Jean-Éric feels strangely bashful, can only nod and focus on digging his keycard out of his pocket to give his hands something to do. André laughs softly. “Drink a pint of water before you go to sleep. I don't want the bosses to know I'm such a bad influence this early on.”

With that, he's gone, and Jean-Éric watches him saunter down the corridor, that loose-hipped gait, before he manages to get himself together and let himself into his room. He's smiling at nothing, he realises as he goes to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He has the unnerving sensation of just having returned from a promising date rather than bonding drinks with his new teammate.

“Fuck,” he says to his reflection in the mirror.

 

 


	2. Hong Kong

Jean-Éric’s season gets off to a better start than he’d been expecting. André’s does not. He’s on the back foot, Jev can see, and hates it. He gets the feeling that André doesn’t really know what to do with himself when he’s on a losing streak. Some people are gracious losers, and others suit victory, and André is one of the latter. Not that he’s _not_ gracious; he congratulates Jev on his pole position and, later, claps him on the back after he comes home with second, nods in agreement when the team praise him for getting their season off to such an auspicious start. Still, there’s a restlessness to him that Jean-Éric hasn’t noticed before, a lingering sense of dissatisfaction in the set of his shoulders, the distracted air with which he speaks to Jev.

“You want to go for a drink later?” he asks a little cautiously on Sunday evening, after the second race is done and they’re milling around the garages, trying not to get in the way of the team. Jean-Éric watches the engineers as they dismantle the car and begin packing it away. He’s not as sentimental about his cars as he suspects some other drivers are, but it always pains him a little bit to see them being packed away in foam-lined boxes like coffins.

“Drowning my sorrows, you mean?” André says, voice light but a slight crease between his eyebrows. His eyes are the kind of clear, cold colour that render his emotions easy to read.

Jev shrugs. “Not necessarily. Some of the other drivers are coming, I think.”

André wrinkles his nose. “I’m not so sure I want to watch them celebrating,” he says, but he follows Jev out of the garage nonetheless, shrugging into his leather jacket and shades. 

 

There’s enough drama at the steward’s office after the race that only a few of them make it out, but the bar is crowded and Jean-Éric loses sight of André after a few drinks. He ends up sitting with Da Costa and Di Grassi, catching up on what they’ve all been up to during the off-season. It’s pleasant, and he only occasionally wonders where André’s got to until Sam slides into the booth next to him with a pint for himself and a glass of Malbec for Jean-Éric and says, “Your new teammate is a hit,” in a tone of voice that suggests he doesn’t necessarily mean it as a compliment.

“Huh?” Jev says, craning his neck to look over Sam’s shoulder into the crowd. At first he thinks Sam is referring to André’s driving, which - well, it would be harsh, perhaps, but not _entirely_ unfair. Then he catches sight of André propping up the bar, a half-drunk glass of wine in one hand, talking to a pretty brunette in a red dress. Actually, _talking to her_ isn’t really the right word for it. He’s got his head bent to whisper into her ear, one hand on her waist, the corner of his smile just visible beneath the fall of her hair.

He says something that makes the woman laugh and slap lightly at his chest, flirtatious, and André’s smile broadens. He looks up briefly and his gaze snags with Jean-Éric’s across the bar. André quirks an eyebrow minutely, holding his stare for too long as he continues to speak into the woman’s ear.

Jean-Éric turns away, takes a gulp of his wine. He feels like he might be going red and prays the light is too dim for it to show. “These enduro guys,” he says off-handedly, smiling at Sam. “They work hard, they play hard.”

“Clearly,” Sam says archly, and Jev shakes his head, turns his body so he’s angled away completely. When Jean-Éric gets up later to get the next round, he glances surreptitiously up and down the length of the bar, but André and the brunette are gone.

 

He makes a mental decision to ask the team not to book them hotel rooms next to each other again when he lets himself into his. It’s past midnight, and there’s been no sign of André for hours now, but the walls are thin, and Jean-Éric can hear his voice through the wall behind the headboard of his bed. There’s laughter, both André’s and a woman’s, and Jev groans because he knows exactly where this is heading.

Sure enough, by the time he’s brushed his teeth and rinsed his face and stripped down to his vest and boxers, the laughter has been replaced by muffled moaning and rhythmic thumping.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jev mutters, standing next to the bed clutching his toothbrush and glaring at the wall in the hope that André will somehow sense his annoyance. He goes to open the window, hoping the distant traffic outside will drown out the noises from the next room, but the wind is freezing and whips the curtains about in a way that he just knows will keep him up all night anyway. He sighs heavily and closes the window again with a bang, giving up and getting into bed.

It’s odd lying there in the darkness, listening to them, shameful in a way that feels illicit rather than unpleasant. He thinks of André’s eyes on him in the bar as his lips brushed the shell of the woman’s ear, how just for a second he’d felt included in their seduction, and blinks fast, trying to dislodge the mental image.

He tries to distract himself by scrolling through his social media, but he can’t concentrate and gives up after a few minutes, begrudgingly admitting to himself that the noises coming from a few feet away are more interesting than his Facebook feed. The headboard is still thudding against the wall every now and then, too sporadically to be caused by actual fucking. The woman is making the kind of noises that suggest she’s genuinely enjoying herself - and Jev likes to think he’s got enough experience by this point to know when people are faking it and when they’re _really_ not - and it’s interspersed with the low rumble of André’s voice.

Belatedly, Jev realises he’s straining to hear, all pretence of ignoring it dropped. The pitch of the voices suggests that André is talking to her, whatever he’s saying met with gasps and moans, and he can’t stop himself from shifting his weight as he wonders what his teammate might be saying to elicit that kind of response.

Within a few minutes the headboard is slamming against the wall in a rhythm that most definitely _does_ suggest that they've moved on from foreplay, so hard that Jean-Éric can feel his own bed jump ever so slightly with the vibration. His own cock is hard, and he rolls on to his front so he can push his hips down into the mattress, too turned on to ignore it but not quite able to bring himself to jerk off over his teammate’s conquests. He yanks the pillow over his head to try to muffle the sound of André’s groans but it’s not enough.

“Fuck!” Jean-Éric rolls on to his back, staring at the ceiling, trying to will away his erection. _This is ridiculous_ , he thinks. _My life is ridiculous_. He reaches up and knocks at the wall with his fist. “André! Fucking keep it down!” he calls, rolling his eyes at the muffled burst of laughter he hears in response.

There’s some scuffling and then the voices grow more distant, only just audible when Jev holds his breath to listen. He sighs and rolls on to his side, resolutely ignoring his aching erection, and in the middle of guiltily imagining what other pieces of furniture in the suite André could be making use of instead of the bed, he falls asleep.

 

André is alone when he comes down to breakfast the next morning, dark rings around his eyes, unshaven and with a circlet of bruises just visible beneath the collar of his black t-shirt. Jean-Éric eyes him over his toast as he helps himself to coffee and slides into the seat opposite.

“Fun night?” Jev asks with some irony. The honey he’s spread on his toast drips on to his fingers and he sucks them clean, ignoring André’s eyes on him.

“Yeah, for sure,” André says after a moment, scratching at the bruised skin of his neck idly. His mouth twitches, almost a smirk, tempered with a sheepishness that makes Jev soften towards him again, however unwillingly. “Sorry if I was loud. Got a bit carried away.”

Jean-Éric breathes in deeply, willing himself not to go red. He thinks again about the sounds he’d overheard, about the way André had locked eyes with him in the bar even as he pressed his body against someone else’s. “It’s fine,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound churlish. “I’ll ask the team to book us in at opposite ends of the hotel next time.”

André grins at him, then winces as he takes a swallow of his coffee and burns his tongue. “Ow. Fuck. Well, you know, I don’t actually make that kind of thing much of a habit so you’re probably fine from now on.”

“Hm,” Jean-Éric says sceptically, pushing the water jug across the table so André can soothe his tongue.

“I’m serious!” André says when he’s taken a drink, dabbing at his tender bottom lip with the tip of a finger. “Maybe in my younger days, but not so much now. Really I’m looking to settle down.”

He’s still grinning when he says it, one eyebrow raised at Jev, who just shakes his head, can’t tell what André is insinuating. If he’s insinuating anything at all.

“I’m not so sure you’re gonna find a wife in a bar like the one we were in last night,” Jev mumbles, and André snorts.

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re right there,” he says, draining his coffee cup and checking his watch. “Come on, _cheri_.” He slaps the table for emphasis, already glancing over his shoulder as he pushes his chair out. “We’re gonna be late for check-out.”

 


	3. Marrakech

André brings his Leica to Marrakech. He spends enough time talking to Carl about focal lengths and shutter speeds and f-stops that Jean-Éric tunes out, content to listen to the lilt of Arabic around him instead. They're in a tiny cafe in a backstreet, sitting around a chipped Formica table, watching the street sellers packing up their stalls and drinking mint tea so sweet it makes his teeth ache. André is bent over a disassembled camera body, an array of capped lenses spread across the table in front of him, holding one by the tips of his fingers and delicately blowing invisible specks of dust from the curvature of the glass. He fits the lens carefully, twisting it until it clicks into place, and Jean-Éric realises simultaneously that he's been staring at André’s hands, and that André has been speaking to him and he hasn't been listening at all.

“Isn't it?” André prompts, kicking at his shin gently to get his attention, and Jean-Éric blinks, cuts his eyes away from the way his fingers move with such assurance over the camera’s dials and switches.

“Isn't what?” he says blankly, ignoring Carl rolling his eyes as he lights a cigarette.

“The light,” André repeats patiently, lifting the camera to his eye and focusing it on the pale stonework of an archway opposite them. “It’s such a specific type of light here.”

“I guess so,” Jean-Éric says slowly, craning his neck to follow where the camera points. André is right - the sun is beginning to set and it paints the street in a peach-tinted glow, the low sun backlighting the buildings and making everything look hyperreal, colours rich and oversaturated. “There’s something…” He trails off, finds he doesn’t have the words to describe what he means. He’s never had a teammate who wants to discuss a particular quality of light with him before. “It’s very pure.”

The shutter of André’s Leica makes a pleasing sound as it clicks, and Jev sips his tea, looking at the things André takes photographs of from the vantage point of their table: a rusted metal gate, a faded cloth garland snagged in the leaves of a cedar tree, a large underfed dog padding through the cobbled streets, nosing the ground. They’re not the kinds of things Jev would ever think to record. Accustomed to years of maintaining a personal brand, his photography has a magpie tendency; he snaps pictures of snow-capped mountains or azure pools at luxury hotels for his Instagram feed.

Surreptitiously, Jev unlocks his phone and taps the gallery, scrolling through the photos he's taken in Marrakech so far. There are some of the track and the garage and his car, one of André and one of Sam, an Audemars Piguet concession with a watch he wants to buy, a plate of ceviche, a pretty sunset. That André can see beauty in such commonplace occurrences makes him feel ashamed, and he tries to see what André is seeing. There’s a slurry of undissolved sugar at the bottom of his glass of tea, and he grimaces as he reaches it, setting it down in favour of a bottle of water instead. André immediately snaps a photo of his glass in its filigreed metal holder, and Jean-Éric sighs.

“We should be getting back soon,” Carl says, and Jev stands quickly. Perhaps it’s pre-race nerves getting to him but he feels antsy, on edge. He has to wait for André to pack away all the different bits of camera kit into his rucksack, and shifts his weight impatiently, checking his phone although he knows there's nothing new on there.

André glances up at him from where he’s crouched on the pavement. “You can go on ahead if you’re in a rush,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. Jean-Éric feels a matching flare of annoyance and opens his mouth to retort, to tell André to get a fucking move on already, but as he does André looks up from where he’s zipping his rucksack and meets Jev’s eyes. He raises one eyebrow almost imperceptibly, holding his gaze steadily, and Jev swallows his anger, breathes out.

“It’s fine,” he says, sliding his phone back into his pocket and rocking back on his heels. “No rush.” André carries on looking at him for a few seconds longer, purses his lips thoughtfully then shrugs and stands, swinging the bag over his shoulder. He touches the small of Jev’s back lightly as he passes, a conciliatory gesture, and Jev feels unaccountably like he's passed some kind of test.

 

The sun has fully set by the time they’ve wandered back to the hotel, the warmth of the sodium lights casting shadows across the cobbles that make it hard to see where he’s putting his feet. André nudges him as they pass beneath a bridge. “Let me take a photo of you,” he says.

“What?” Jev asks, surprised and almost stumbling into a dip in the road as he glances over his shoulder.

André nods at the brick wall opposite them, a halo of light cast over it by a nearby streetlamp, highlighting some red-painted graffiti. “Go on, go and stand over there. I need to practice my portrait shots.”

Jev sends him a sideways glance, pushing his hands into his pockets. He knows he ought to be used to people taking photos of him by now, but there’s a difference between making his peace with photojournalists and paparazzi following him down the pitlane, or even the photoshoots he does for the team and sponsors, and someone wanting to photograph him for no reason at all. He hesitates, but André has already shrugged his rucksack off to get his camera back out. Jev bites his lip and moves to stand next to the wall, leaning back against the rough brickwork and folding his arms across his chest. André waits, watches him, holding the camera by his side, an intention in his stare that Jev can't decipher.

He can’t quite bring himself to look into the camera’s lens, feeling inexplicably shy. He glances away instead, concentrates on Carl who’s doing nothing interesting, just smoking a cigarette and scrolling through his Twitter feed. André doesn’t direct him in any way, doesn’t ask him to stand a certain way or look at him or any of the things he’s used to hearing from photographers. He just stands, camera raised to his eye, a curious stillness coming over him as he waits for…something. Jean-Éric brings one foot up, resting it on the wall behind him, rocking slightly, hearing the shutter snap. He can’t help but wonder what André is seeing in him, and the idea makes his stomach lurch, a combination of self-consciousness and something else he can't quite define and doesn't want to investigate too closely. He glances up at André just as he lowers the camera, meeting his eyes with a shy smile, and André smiles back at him, his eyes crinkling around the edges.

“Gorgeous,” he says lightly, and Jev looks away, feeling heat climb up his neck beneath his scarf, hearing the shutter click one last time.

 

André is subdued on Sunday evening following another disastrous race; Jev isn't sure what to say to him, knowing from experience that whatever he says is likely to be taken as either supercilious or patronising. There's a shamed quality to André’s silence and Jev realises with a small shock that André is nervous, wary of his reaction. He thinks guiltily of some of the more spirited outbursts he's had in the garage recently, the shouting matches with tired engineers André might have been privy to: _Don't you realise we win as a team and lose as a team? It's as much your responsibility as mine if we aren't at the top of the championship._

“Sorry it didn't work out today,” Jean-Éric ventures when they're in the back of the hire car to the airport. André’s eyes are hidden behind his usual mirrored shades and he looks over at Jev and then back out of the window, his expression barely changing.

“I didn't think it would be like this,” he says after a short silence, and Jev can hear the frustration lacing his voice.

“It's different,” Jean-Éric says. He thinks back to his own first race, the humiliation and panic of watching his battery level drop and drop seemingly no matter what he did. Then the final ignominy, the car lurching as the suspension snapped. The disgust he'd felt for himself, the ache in his chest and the conviction that everyone at Red Bull Racing was gathered around a TV screen somewhere, watching his failure and congratulating themselves on a decision well made. He shakes himself from the memories, pats at his breast pocket and the neck of his t-shirt, annoyed when he realises he's lost his sunglasses yet again.

André is watching him, and bends down to root around in the messenger bag in the footwell by his shoes. He wordlessly drops a black hard shell case onto Jev’s lap, and Jev opens it to find a pair of Clubmasters. “Thanks,” he says, a little surprised, sliding them on. André nods and returns to staring out of the window. He's drumming his fingers on the windowsill, restless, tension in every line of his body. Jev sighs, pushing the glasses up his nose where they're slipping on his sweaty skin, opening the window a crack to let the breeze in.

“Come to the sim with me next week,” he says, reaching out to touch André’s arm just above his watch strap with the tips of his fingers. André turns his head sharply in - what, surprise? Jev withdraws his fingers quickly, folding them into his lap and biting at the inside of his mouth, a nervous habit he thought he'd dropped. “If you're free, I mean. I can give you some advice, some tips. Things I wish someone had told me when I first started out, you know?”

He risks a sideways glance. André is looking at him intently over the tops of his sunglasses, a slight frown colouring his expression. Jean-Éric falters, twists his hands together. Stupid of him to think the older driver would want his advice. André with all his myriad successes, and Jev who’s a decade away from his last championship win.

André nods once, still watching him with a directness that makes Jev squirm. “Sure,” he says. There's a hesitancy in his voice that doesn't match his forthright expression. “That's…” He exhales, almost a sigh, shoulders slumping. “That's actually really kind of you.”

Jean-Éric shrugs, giving him a half-smile. There's a part of him that wonders if he shouldn't leave his teammate to flounder, let André figure it out the hard way like he'd been forced to and collect the spoils for himself. Whether the fact that he can't bring himself to do so makes him weak. He scratches the skin of his wrist where his watch strap rubs. “No worries. I usually get there at around eight. You can meet me there whenever you like.”

André nods, reaches over and nudges his thigh with his knuckles. “Thanks, Jev,” he says, the first time Jean-Éric has heard him use the nickname. He goes back to staring out of the window, but his expression has cleared. Jev finds himself feeling inexplicably relieved.

  

He keeps the sunglasses. He means to give them back at the sim day, but he's tired enough that when his alarm goes off at 6:30, he has just about enough presence of mind to shower and drag himself out of the door with a coffee in a travel mug, and the sunglasses stay where he's left them on top of his chest of drawers.

He gets home at gone midnight, exhausted and aching but oddly elated. He'd sat down for hours with André, talking him through the peculiarities of the Formula E car, the best ways to conserve energy, all the little quirks he's figured out in three long and attritive years. To his surprise, André had turned out to be a good student, listening closely and asking questions, drinking seemingly endless cups of filter coffee and writing notes in a battered Moleskine. They’d taken turns in the sim all afternoon and into the evening, comparing data, only arguing when Jev had proposed working through lunch and André had told him, quite politely but very firmly, to fuck off.

He checks his phone while he's lying in bed, a bad habit that he knows is probably only increasing his likelihood of anxiety dreams, but he's long since learned that the unknown doesn't sit well with him, especially not when he's trying to get to sleep. There's an email from André in his inbox, timestamped a few minutes ago. _Jetlag is killing me so im editing these!_ the subject line reads.

Jean-Éric taps on it and smiles when the screen fills with photos from the souks, scrolling through the saturated colours idly. He's not really paying much attention, just letting the images spool past his tired eyes, until with a shock of recognition he sees his own face. It's one of the photos André had taken of him standing beneath the bridge. Jean-Éric pinches the screen and zooms in, scrutinising himself. André has caught him at a strange moment, glancing off just past the camera with a half-smile on his face, pensive but still. The glow from the streetlamp above highlights one side of his face and casts the other into shadow, bringing out the paler tones in his eyes in a way he rarely notices when looking in a mirror. He breathes out noisily and scrolls down to see if there are any other photos, but that's the last one. Beneath it, André has written _I see u :-)_ and Jev stares at it for a long moment.

He taps reply and hovers his thumbs over the keyboard for a moment, considering, then loses his nerve and puts the phone screen-down on the bedside table. He's reading too much into it, he knows. After a moment, sighing at himself, he picks his phone up again, squinting at the bright backlight as he sends the reply before he can think better of it: _yes, you do_.

 


	4. Santiago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I can only apologise for how long it’s taken me to write this, and also that it’s sort of miserable. The next chapter will be happier, I swear to god.
> 
> A warning that this chapter contains (admittedly fairly vague) references to disordered eating and general mental bad feelings. 
> 
> Shoutout to B and C for the Jeandré discourse.

On reflection, maybe his tutelage has worked a little too well, he thinks in Santiago as he fights to keep the car on the track with the nose of André’s car locked tight over his rear end, cursing and wrenching at the steering wheel. He’s torn between being absolutely fucking livid and just _laughing_ , because of course André can’t just try for the overtake like a normal person, he’s got to be crawling all over the back of him.

“What the _fuck_ was that,” he spits into the radio as soon as André’s pulled back enough for him to hit his comms button, fingers trembling with the adrenaline. André keeps trying, and Jean-Éric is pretty sure one or both of them are going to end up in the wall eventually, but part of him is thrilled. This is what they've been aiming for: black and gold fighting for the lead. Still, it won't stop him murdering André very slowly and painfully if he puts them both in the barriers.

The team tell André to back off eventually, once Jev’s nearly been off the track again and thrown a few more choice four-letter words in the general direction of the pit wall. Jean-Éric is so caught up in it that he's shaking when he crosses the line, more so when the team confirm they've got the one-two. He closes his eyes for a moment on the straight, allowing himself a split second to savour the giddy joy that rises in his chest before he realises he's got no idea where parc ferme is and tries to pull himself together.

André apologises to him before he’s even gotten out of the car, waiting by the garages to clasp his hand as he’s still struggling with his belts. The urgency of his apology surprises Jev, makes him smile. He hadn't expected André to say sorry at all, yet the words slip from his mouth with no apparent difficulty, his usual smile creasing the corners of his eyes, the only part of his face visible beneath his balaclava. Whatever vestiges of irritation had been lurking in Jean-Éric’s chest dissolve entirely and he flips up the visor of his helmet so he can look André in the eyes to congratulate him on his second place.

 

Perhaps it’s the champagne they all half-drown themselves in on the podium, though more likely it’s just sheer delight, but he clings to André on the top step, jumping up and down and feeling André’s hand on his stomach, a warm and insistent pressure as the team swarm the platform to join the festivities. He glances across at André, meeting his gaze as they scramble into position for the team photo. André quirks an eyebrow minutely. The blue of his eyes is intense against his tanned skin, even below the shadows of his peaked sponsorship cap. Jev is temporarily snagged by his stare, faltering. Wetness coats André’s face - sweat? Champagne? - and they’re standing close enough for Jev to be able to smell his antiperspirant where he’s tucked into André’s armpit. It seems he spends half his life these days getting tongue-tied when André looks at him.

“Smile,” André says beneath the clamour of the crowd, very close to his ear. His breath ghosts over Jev’s damp earlobe and makes him shudder involuntarily.

“What?” Jev says - he’s already grinning so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt. André tilts his head, slides his eyes pointedly over to where the photographer is patiently waiting for them to face front. Inwardly cursing himself, Jev drags his eyes away from his teammate and focuses on the camera, on the trophy in his hand, the cheers of his team. He ignores the way André’s hand lingers, hidden, at the small of his back.

 

He can't resist putting the photo of the hole in his rear wing onto his Instagram stories while he's getting ready to go out. _Is the shape you left on my rear wing on purpose?_ he types, adding an emoji and tagging André in it. The shape of it is just too perfect for the innuendo, and he knows André will get a kick out of it, refusing to think about it any deeper than that. Within a few minutes, he gets a message back: three crying laughing emojis and _no comment_ , followed ten seconds later by _anyway, you wish._

Jev chokes on the mineral water he's drinking, raising his eyebrows at the screen, then goes back to check it's definitely André replying and definitely to the right photo. It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself sternly; it's just André replying like-for-like to his teasing. Tapping his thumb on the edge of the screen, he chews his lip for a moment while he contemplates the message. There's so much he could say, none of which would be appropriate and most of which he doesn't really want to think about before he starts drinking anyway. Eventually he sends back three eye-rolling emojis, shoves his phone into his pocket resolutely, and goes to brush his teeth.

 

He probably should have known it would be a messy night. He does have enough foresight to permit himself a pizza at the restaurant the team ends up at, attempting to line his stomach and telling himself firmly that it's a celebration and therefore he needs to eat a suitably decadent meal. The effect is somewhat mitigated by the several large glasses of Pinot Grigio André pours for him, the level of each getting progressively closer to the top of the glass. He declines dessert; André orders an extra spoon for his chocolate mousse and places it next to him without saying a word.

They end up at a reasonably swanky nightclub; at least, it’s fancy enough to have a VIP room and relatively decent music, and there’s Belvedere sweating in the ice buckets in the centre of the low tables they’re shown to by a hostess André makes a show out of looking up and down appreciatively. Nobody is really interested in talking; they’re all there to drink and dance and Jev loses himself to it, pouring himself drink after drink until the room is hazy. He knows he’s at the point of being dangerously drunk when he sits down in a booth and the room carries on spinning lazily. He has to close one eye to concentrate on sending a text to Léa.

“Vergne! Come and dance.” Mitch is tugging at his shirtsleeve, pawing at him in a way that should be annoying but is actually endearing, a half-drunk glass of wine balanced precariously in a loose grasp in his other hand. Jev shrugs and allows himself to be manhandled out of his seat, abandoning his text half-written, knowing it’ll probably be full of too many typos to make much sense anyway. Mitch is always good fun to be around, especially on a night out, and especially when there’s music playing, and his easy handsiness is exactly what Jev needs right now. The music in the club is bass-heavy, a smoky female voice that winds around a trip-hop beat.

 _Everyone in this club is hoping for a fuck tonight_ , Jev thinks with the peculiar flat logic of drink, and allows himself to be led into the middle of the throng of bodies on the dance floor. Mitch pulls him close, hips moving against his in a way that hovers just on the right side of inappropriate. The height difference is more obvious than usual when they're this close, and even though he'd usually be feeling awkwardly gargantuan around the petite drivers, it's actually nice to nuzzle into Mitch’s sweet-smelling hair. One of his hands rests in the small of Jev’s back, guiding his hips, and it makes him think of the way André had touched him on the podium, before he’d unwound his arm from Jev’s body to punch the air, trophy wielded in his free hand like a weapon.

“Hey, have you seen André?” Jev shouts into Mitch’s ear over the music, and Mitch laughs, pushes at his shoulder.

“You can’t be thinking about him while you’re dancing with me! Technically that's cheating, you know that?”

“You have a girlfriend, right?” Jev says, partly to double-check, because Mitch is hot and well, it's been a while since he got laid, and partly just to be an asshole. He feels Mitch’s laughter against his chest where the smaller man is pressed against him.

“Nothing wrong with a little bit of dancing,” Mitch tells him, patting his side. “But if you’re that desperate, I saw André near the bar about ten minutes ago.”

Without really considering it, Jev begins to disentangle himself from Mitch’s grip. As much as he’s enjoying the closeness and the little sparks it sends down his spine - even if he knows there’s no design to it, that this is just Mitch’s idea of acceptable platonic dancing between colleagues - André’s name is in his chest and between his teeth, and he’s too drunk to fight against the constant desire to be near him.

Mitch looks at him closely, and Jean-Éric realises belatedly that Mitch is probably quite a bit more sober than he is. “Jeez, you’ve got it bad, huh?” he says, his features softening, and Jev blinks. The alcohol threatens to loosen his tongue. He takes a breath, steadies himself, swallows the words back down. The terror that he might ruin the fragile happiness he's so carefully built for himself by running his mouth sobers him up.

“Don't be silly,” he says, aiming for a breeziness that he’s not quite sure he’s capable of pulling off. “He owes me a drink.”

Mitch shrugs, looking thoroughly unconvinced, but waves him off nonetheless.

André waylays him on his way to the bar, catching him around the waist. He doesn't look drunk, exactly, but there's a looseness to him, a sloppiness to his movements that suggests bad decisions are imminent.

“Hi!” Jean-Éric says, and it’s so easy to blame the drink for making him stumble a little closer, curling himself into the solidity of André’s flank. “I was just coming to look for you. You owe me a drink.”

André raises his eyebrows, the corners of his lips twitching. “Do I?”

Belatedly Jev realises he’d invented that fact for Mitch’s benefit and mentally smacks his own forehead, but outwardly he shrugs as best he can with André’s arm still wrapped around him. Distantly he wonders when he and André started touching each other so much, what it means, if it means anything at all. He can cope with it from Mitch, who makes up for his small size by being loud and excitable and inserting himself bodily and with aggressive charm into other people’s personal space. André on the other hand, handles him with a casual acquisitiveness, drawing Jev’s body to his own accompanied with a challenging tilt to his chin, those blue eyes flashing. _What does this mean?_ Jev wants to ask him. The ambiguity of their relationship simultaneously excites and unnerves him. _What does any of this mean?_

André is still watching him, amused. “You drove into my rear wing,” Jev says eventually, reaching to take André’s drink from his hand. André rolls his eyes but acquiesces. He’s drinking rum and ginger ale, and Jev gasps a little at the unexpected spiciness, wondering why André can’t just drink his rum with Coke like every normal person does in a nightclub. “It’s an apology drink. I’ll take this one.”

“You loved me driving into your rear wing,” André says, allowing Jev to take another sip and then tugging the glass back out of his hand. His free hand rests on Jev’s shoulder, thumb stroking the edge of his beard absentmindedly. Jev does his best to pretend he hasn't noticed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“We can share,” Jev says, plaintive, about the drink, and then, because his mouth is working without his brain’s say-so: “If you want my ass that much you can just tell me, you don’t need to practice with the cars.”

André snorts at that and relinquishes his drink. He slides his hand down Jev’s back, catching on the creases of his shirt, skimming the flat of his hand over the curve of his ass. “You loved it,” he says again, definitive this time, and Jev inhales deeply, hides his face by lifting the glass to his mouth again. This time he savours the burn.

 

He doesn’t feel anything good when he wakes up the next morning. His head hurts enough that he has to cover his eyes with his forearm for a few minutes until he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the stylish-yet-inadequate rice paper blinds. A group of them are sharing a villa for the race weekend, and he has little memory of how they’d gotten back from the club.

He drags himself up eventually, groaning at the twin assaults of his pounding head and roiling stomach. Padding into the kitchen in his boxers and t-shirt, he finds André alone in the massive open-plan kitchen, wearing only his jeans, buttering huge slabs of toast. Jev tries, and mostly fails, not to stare at André’s bare chest, the way the muscles in his shoulder shift as he scrapes the knife across the toast, the light hair on his chest.

André looks up. His eyes are heavy and shadowed and his jaw dark with stubble. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, the attempt at perkiness somewhat tempered by the gravelly voice it’s delivered in, and Jev just grunts in reply and slides into a stool at the breakfast bar. Dropping his head to the cool marble surface, he raises his middle finger when he hears André laughing. “You look like I feel. Do you want toast?”

“Absolutely not,” Jev mumbles into the work surface. The marble is soothing against his hot skin. 

“It’ll help,” André says, and Jev closes his eyes. There’s a quiet pop as André takes the lid off a jar of apricot conserve. The smell reminds him of schnapps and he groans again, nausea rising.

“I don’t want anything. Just coffee, if you’re making it.”

André sighs, and a moment later there’s a thud next to his ear. Jev lifts his head enough to see that André has buttered him a slice of toast and set it down on a plate next to him. André points to it with his butter knife. “Just in case you change your mind.”

“Jesus, André, will you fuck off? I said I’m fine,” Jev snaps before he can stop himself. André’s face stays calm, though his back stiffens. There’s a beat of silence, and Jev lets his gaze drop to his lap. He forgets sometimes that André has only known him for a few months, doesn’t know the topics to avoid, the history Jev has taken care to keep separate from their easy companionship. It’s been increasingly easy to distance himself from that part of his life, but he's tired and scared and his head hurts, and this is the only thing he knows how to subdue when the rest of his emotions rise and spill through his fingers like blood.

André takes the plate wordlessly and turns away to gather mugs for the coffee brewing in the cafetière next to him, though not fast enough that Jev misses the hurt crease in his forehead. Jev squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. If his head would stop pounding so much he might have slightly more chance of not making a complete fool of himself. André places a mug of coffee in front of him with slightly more force than necessary, and Jev flinches at the crack of china against stone. “Enjoy,” André says coolly, picking up the slice of toast he’d buttered for Jev and biting the corner off defiantly.

“I’m going for a shower,” Jev announces, sliding off the stool as soon as he hears other voices in the corridor. André nods once, and Jev picks up his mug and escapes.

 

The shower in his en-suite is incredible, and he swallows some painkillers with the dregs of his coffee before standing under the powerful spray for long enough that the water starts to run cold. He gets his best thinking done in the shower, headache or no headache, and he's sufficiently unnerved by his own defensiveness that he needs to untangle his increasingly tortured mental state before he tries to interact with anyone else. Specifically André.

The image of André in his jeans and bare chest pops into his head again, and he's going to have to face up to the fact that his feelings for his teammate have gone well beyond anything he can write off as friendly camaraderie. For some reason he thinks of André’s bare feet on the slate floor, the delicate bones of his ankles below the rolled-up cuffs of his jeans, the strange intimacy of it. It makes his skin crawl even beneath the heat of the spray, and he reaches out, dials the temperature up another few degrees until it's on the verge of burning. It's been a long time since he's let himself feel like this for anyone. He's too busy, that's what he tells himself and his family when they ask. Too busy for a relationship, too much travelling, not enough time to date. He sifts through the fragmented memories of the previous night, trying to figure out whether he'd said anything that might have incriminated him. Would André have noticed? Jev thinks back to his hand sliding down his back, squeezing his arse. The way André had grinned wolfishly, enjoying how flustered it made him. Still, the flirtation isn't what worries him. It's everything that goes along with it.

 

André is only slightly distant when Jev finds him sitting out on the patio, drinking a glass of grapefruit juice and staring out across the rippling surface of the swimming pool. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, feet still bare.

“Hey,” Jean-Éric says softly, dropping into the sun lounger next to him.

“Hi,” André says, giving him a brief smile and returning to his staring. Jev watches him for a moment. His chest aches with the need to touch, be touched in return.

“I want -” Jev says, and then stops, realising he has no idea what he's trying to say. It works on its own merit. _I want._ His entire life up to now could be summed up with those two words, with the hollow in the pit of his stomach that he doesn't know how to fill. It's become second nature to deny himself everything his body craves, to view every base human urge as just another stumbling block in the way of the achievements lying just beyond his fingertips: for food, for love, for sleep, water, a permanent home, someone to fuck, someone to wake up next to. He'd almost been able to convince himself he could overcome the appetites that had held him back for so long, and then André had arrived and run roughshod over all his carefully-constructed barriers. The exhaustion of self-denial hits him all at once, and he wants to sink into softness, into the warmth of André’s body, to have this man - his _teammate_ , for fuck’s sake, hasn't he learned his lesson by now - tear him to the ground so he can be rebuilt in his image.

“Want what?” André says, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. Jev breathes out, looks away, across the distant hills. It's approaching midday but the sun is hazy and the air humid, as though a storm is brewing. Snatches of conversation drift through the open windows and he knows they'll be disturbed soon, that now isn't the time to say something he might have to explain.

“It's fine,” he says. “I just wanted to say sorry for being rude.”

As a rule, he hates apologising, but something about the way André’s face relaxes into a smile, his dimples showing, makes Jev think it's worth it. “That's okay,” André says, and Jev is struck yet again by the effortless way André sheds emotions he no longer needs. Just like that, they’re friends again. Jev feels limp with relief. “We’re still learning about each other. Next time we wake up together after a night of heavy drinking I'll remember that coffee is your favourite way to start the day.”

Jev fights to hold his gaze, keeping his chin lifted to match André’s, until André breaks into his usual infectious giggle. His cheeks are warm. “Not my _favourite_ ,” he says, can't help it, desperate for André to meet his teasing halfway.

André’s smile widens. “Duly noted,” he says. Jean-Éric wants to scream. _Please_ , he wants to say, but what he'd be asking for he's still not entirely sure. His nerve endings are frayed enough that one more double entendre might be the death of him, and yet he wants to push it further, as far as he can.

Someone yells André’s name from inside the villa and they both start, the fine balance of the mood between them breaking. André twists in his seat to wave through the doors. “Be right in,” he calls, draining the last of his glass of juice and swinging his legs off the sun lounger. He touches Jev’s temple as he goes past, a gentle brush of his knuckles that makes Jev close his eyes involuntarily. “Hope your head feels better soon,” André says gently. His thumb lingers on the arch of his brow for a second, cold from the drink he's been holding. Jean-Éric lifts his own hand, touching André’s wrist, wants to hold him in place. André laughs softly, pulls away, and then he's gone, the French doors swinging in his wake.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. After Mexico (Belgium)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kind feedback so far, it really does mean a lot ♥
> 
> Once again, a warning that this chapter does contain discussion of disordered eating, a little more explicitly than the last chapter.

He hasn't seen André for a few weeks, splitting his time between skiing and business meetings in Switzerland, but clearly André has been stalking his Instagram because the text he sends reads _if ur bored of being paid to look glam on a mountain, come stay w me for a few days? :-)_

Jev doesn’t think twice about replying to say yes.

André’s house is large and full of light, although he's less proud about showing that off than he is about pointing out the Porsche he's got parked outside. “My baby. Got her out of storage especially for this weekend,” he tells Jev with a grin. “Tomorrow I'll take you for a ride.”

He follows André through the house on a quick tour - “Bathroom, my bedroom, your bedroom, pretty self-explanatory” - and then slumps on to the huge sofa which covers the entire back wall, leaning over the edge to watch André in the open-plan kitchen, messing about with his ridiculously huge coffee machine. He’s been to André’s house in Monaco plenty of times, but this one feels more homely, less of a statement. Little representations of André’s personality are scattered around the place: a diecast model of his Audi R18, a pocket knife with an abalone handle, a Fleetwood Mac record with a coffee ring marking the sleeve.

André brings over double espressos and a plate of biscotti so thick with powdered sugar that it sends up a little cloud when he sets the dish down. Jean-Éric reaches to take one, closing his eyes in bliss at the rich coffee coupled with the buttery sweetness of the biscuit.

“God!” he says, licking the sugar from his lips. “I can't have stuff like this in my house, it’s too nice. Too tempting.”

André snorts, dropping into the armchair opposite him and kicking his legs up on to the coffee table. “Right, because you have to worry about your weight.”

Jev shrugs, dipping his biscotti into his espresso. “Well, not so much now, I guess. I'm just in the habit.”

André shakes his head. “Bullshit. Eat what you like, you've got little skinny legs. You can work it off in the gym some other time.”

“I could have done with you around at Toro Rosso instead of Kvyat,” Jev says drily. “Try sharing a garage with someone who weighs sixty kilos soaking wet, you'll learn never to look at biscotti again without feeling guilt.”

“Man,” André says, features working in disgust. He contemplates the thick muscles of his upper arms and then bites the end off a biscotti defiantly. “I’d have been completely screwed.”

Jean-Éric takes a sip of his espresso because he’s not sure how to arrange his face; he doesn’t trust himself to stay neutral, even after all this time. “They made me get a nutritionist after I ended up in hospital and then it wasn’t so bad, but there was a month or so where I lived on, like…chicken breast. And cucumber.”

André splutters, sending forth a small cloud of icing sugar, and puts his espresso cup down into its saucer. “What?”

“What?” Jean-Éric echoes, bemused. Sometimes he forgets they’ve only known each other for a few months.

André’ squints at him. “You ended up in _hospital_?”

Jean-Éric shrugs uncomfortably. “It wasn't such a big deal. I was stupid and started restricting my liquids as well as my food and I passed out. They said I had dehydration and some other things I forget. It sounds more dramatic than it was.”

The last part isn't strictly true, but André is still blinking at him, appalled, and Jean-Éric trails off, staring at the powdery residue in the bottom of his coffee cup. He doesn't like to think about 2014 too much if he can help it.

He jumps when André smacks the flat of his hand against the arm of his chair. Jean-Éric looks up at him, surprised at the expression he sees on Andre’s face. His brow is furrowed and mouth drawn in a grim line, staring down at the half-eaten biscotti in his hand. “Fucking hell, Jev.”

Jean-Éric is silent for a moment, taken aback. The twist of anxiety that had accompanied him through that entire season echoes in his gut, the ever-present sensation of somehow managing to be always too much and never quite enough. When he sees photos of himself from that final year at Toro Rosso, he can't help but focus on the hollows in his cheeks and the dark rings around his eyes, memories of the gnawing pain in his stomach and the sickly racing pulse that had come to define the year for him.

It's futile to try to describe it to André, the way it became a sort of game, another way to push himself, waiting just one more hour before he ate half an apple cut into slices. There's no way for him to adequately explain how, in a year where his entire life was dictated by outside forces which all seemed stacked against him, losing those extra kilos had felt like the only thing within his control. No way for André - whose self-belief allowed him to walk away from chances he knew were rigged against him - to understand that, by the end of that awful year, he hadn’t much cared whether or not he made it out alive.

“They told me I was at a weight disadvantage,” he says finally, turning his hands palm-down and looking at the veins on the backs of them. “I would have done anything to keep that seat. Anyone would.”

A muscle in André’s jaw is twitching slightly. “F1 isn't the be all and end all,” he says, in a tone that suggests he wants to say a lot more.

“I know that _now_ ,” Jev says, trying to lighten the mood. André sighs and presses his lips together in a thin line, but he allows Jean-Éric to change the subject nonetheless.

 

The conversation plays on his mind for the rest of the evening. He sits on the balcony with the French doors open to let the cold spring air in, smoking André’s cigarettes - he smokes menthols, which normally Jean-Éric would consider sacrilege but he’s willing to make an exception given that they’re free - while he watches him make dinner. He's never really thought of André as someone who would be a good cook, but it makes sense; he’s a gourmand. Everything he does is luxurious and intense. He exists within a surfeit of feeling, and Jean-Éric is simultaneously entranced and threatened by it.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Jev calls over the sound of violent sizzling as André pours vermouth into a pan and tips it over the gas flame to ignite it. André just looks up and grins, flicking out the tips of his fingers like a magician. The house smells incredible, the scents of food mingling with cigarette smoke and the riesling André has poured into worryingly generous glasses.

They eat inside at the scrubbed wood table running alongside the windows, and Jean-Éric thinks he might be in heaven. André hasn’t gone quite so far as to light candles, but to Jean-Éric’s hopeful eyes it feels like a seduction nonetheless. The sun is just beginning to set and the golden hour light streams through the windows, giving the room a filmic hue. The food is rich and intense, linguine with fat prawns and fiery chilli flakes cut with tomatoes that burst with juice when Jev bites into them, cooling his mouth with gulps of wine so smooth and creamy it makes him groan. He doesn’t miss the way André picks out an extra few prawns to go on top of his plate before he serves it, or the way he keeps his glass topped up. It’s touching, the thought that perhaps André is looking after him, and the feeling surprises him. Usually he hates feeling coddled, can’t help but see it as an accusation pointing to some inherent deficiency in his ability to run his own life. It’s not like that with André.

“This is incredible,” Jev says as he nears the bottom of his bowl, twirling strands of pasta around his fork. “If you carry on feeding me like this maybe I will be too fat to fit in the car, huh.”

André tuts and kicks him under the table, a gentle nudge to the shin with his socked foot. “I highly doubt that’s going to happen.” He’s quiet for a moment, biting into a prawn thoughtfully. “Besides, I like feeding you.”

Jev thinks back to their earlier conversation, the anger and sadness he’d seen on André’s face, emotions he sees so little of in him. Clearly André is thinking along the same lines, because after taking a mouthful of wine, he says, “And I don’t like thinking of you how you were back then. Fuck them.” He looks out of the window, jaw set in defiance, clearly choosing his words. “Trying to diminish you like that.”

It’s so uncharacteristically sincere that Jean-Éric doesn’t quite know what to do, fighting the urge to crack a joke or change the subject. “It’s fine now,” is all he can think of to say.

It’s not exactly true, probably never will be, and André looks at him with unbearable empathy but says nothing. Jean-Éric looks away and André seems to accept it, leaning over to refill his glass.

 

André opens another bottle of wine, and then a bottle of Nikka single malt, and by late evening they’re both pleasantly buzzed. The rich food coupled with the alcohol has made Jev feel sleepy and sated, sensual in some vaguely-defined way. They’ve moved to the sofa, which is big and old and easy to sink into, and André angles himself into one corner and tugs at Jean-Éric until he’s lying sideways in the crook of his arm, head against André’s chest, listening to him breathe. Jean-Éric closes his eyes and sips his whisky, enjoying the rattle of the ice cubes against the glass, all his senses heightened pleasurably.

After a moment, emboldened by the alcohol and his closed eyes, he murmurs, “Play with my hair.”

André laughs, not unkindly, and obligingly begins to card his fingers through the longer strands of Jev’s hair. His free hand rests on Jev’s chest, somewhere between a hug and holding him in place. “You’re so demanding,” he says fondly.

“Mm,” Jean-Éric says, stretching out and leaning into the slow pressure of André’s fingers on his scalp. “But I’m worth the effort.”

“Of course,” André says, and Jean-Éric can hear the smile in his voice. André’s fingers are at his temple, rubbing at the downy hairs there, and normally Jev would be trying to urge the attention away from his hairline, but tonight he can't bring himself to care. He allows himself to relax another notch, sinking into the simple intimacy of the touch.

“Look at you,” André murmurs, drawing one finger along the line of Jean-Éric’s nose and down to the curve of his lips. “You pretend you’re all cool, you’re just a pussycat.”

Jean-Éric hums in agreement, eyes still closed, feeling André’s laughter rumble in his chest as he returns to stroking his hair.

“Today has been a nice day,” Jev says sleepily after a moment. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” André murmurs, patting his chest with the flat of his hand. They fall silent again, and Jean-Éric sits partially upright to put his empty glass down on the coffee table. When he settles back into place, André’s hand moves to his stomach, the gentlest pressure through his shirt. Jean-Éric tips his head back slightly where it’s nestled in the crook of André’s shoulder, glancing up at his face from below, but André is looking away, his gaze focused on something Jean-Éric can’t see on the other side of the room. He wriggles slightly, his back curling further into André’s side.

André pauses, and then his hand moves, creeping beneath the hem of Jean-Éric’s shirt until his fingertips are brushing bare skin. It’s ticklish, and Jev bites his lip, fighting to keep still. The mood has shifted, a charged electricity in the air, and the slightest movement of André’s fingers against the muscles of his stomach makes him twitch. André brushes his thumb in a minute back-and-forth motion just above his navel, and Jev can’t help it, shivers a little. He feels rather than hears André’s laugh.

It’s easier that they’re not looking at each other. Jev stares at the bookshelves opposite, the clutter of old car manuals and haphazardly stacked CDs and tchotchkes picked up from André’s travels. He has the urge to ask him about each one, wants to find out what had made him buy that particular carved wooden bear figurine, which album reminds him of the first time he’d been with a girl. He wants to know André’s past. He stays quiet.

André exhales slowly, his thumb still moving in its maddening path, and tips his head down to nuzzle at Jean-Éric’s hair. Jean-Éric closes his eyes, swallows, leaning into the touch. André smells of garlic and cigarettes and Tobacco Vanille. Jev gathers his courage, tips his head up and back, twisting so he’s more or less looking up André, albeit at a ridiculously awkward angle and with André’s shoulder digging into the top of his spine. He stops caring about all of that when André leans down and kisses him.

The angle is completely off and Jev is straining to meet his mouth, their teeth clicking against each other. It’s not the best kiss he’s ever had by any stretch; it's barely even a kiss, they're just mouthing at each other, and yet by the time they break apart he’s trembling, hot and prickly all over. André’s breathing has quickened where their bodies touch. He lifts his hand to touch his own mouth self-consciously, blinking up at André. He knows he must look like a deer in the headlights and wishes desperately that he could be cooler about this kind of thing. André seems to pick up on his bewilderment, smiling in that crooked way of his and squeezing him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You good?” he says softly, the words buzzing against Jev’s forehead where his lips still touch him.

“I’m -” Jev falters. “Yeah, I’m good.”

André unwinds his arm from where it’s still wrapped around his chest. The mood breaks, the moment passing, and Jev sits up, struggling slightly against the squashy sofa and his tipsy lack of coordination.

“Let’s get to bed,” André says, friendly, no inflection in his voice. Jean-Éric nods, follows him to the guest bedroom, not really listening as André tells him where he can find a spare toothbrush and clean towels.

 

He can't sleep. He lies awake, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling and breathing in the scent of André’s laundry detergent from the sheets, turning the evening over and over in his mind. Jean-Éric had taken his lead from André and pretended the kiss hadn't happened, said good night and watched André’s bedroom door shut from the threshold of the guest room. Now, though, in silence that grows to fill the room, he replays it over and over, the way André’s mouth felt against his, the taste of whisky on his lips, amber-sweet. It's tempting to believe it didn't happen at all, a vivid dream born from too many illicit fantasies about his teammate as he's trying to get to sleep.

He thinks about his full stomach, the way André looked standing at the kitchen bench chopping parsley with a heavy chef’s knife, one leg crossed behind the other. How every time he sees André smile it’s like a punch to the gut, a sickening lurch and the words _I want you_ on the tip of his tongue. The way he fits into his side, André’s arm a comforting and familiar weight draped across his shoulder. He stretches to pick up his watch from the bedside table; it reads 2:14 AM.

“Fuck it,” Jev says to the ceiling, and gets out of bed.

André stirs when he opens his bedroom door a crack and knocks gently on the doorframe. There's a streetlight just outside his window, a shaft of pale light bisecting the bed where it creeps around the edges of the blind and picking out the outline of André’s body beneath the blankets.

“Hey,” André says, blinking. His voice is scratchy with sleep but he doesn't sound surprised to see him there. Maybe he’d been waiting for Jev to gather his courage all along.

He hovers in the doorway for a moment, suddenly shy, not quite sure what he's doing. André scrubs a hand over his face, trying to wake himself up, and pulls the duvet back. “Come on,” he mumbles, and Jev bites his lip, goes over to him.

“Is this okay?” he asks, staring down at André’s naked chest, the thin boxers he’s wearing, the muscles in his arms. He’s sobered up by now but everything is tinged with unreality, André’s body finally there for the taking.

André squints up at him impatiently and reaches for Jev’s wrist, tugging him down and into the bed, pulling him close. Jev can feel the scratch of his chest hair through the worn fabric of his own t-shirt. André wraps one arm around his waist, making a sound in the back of his throat when Jean-Éric pushes his feet in between his calves.

“Cold,” André mutters, but he doesn't flinch away, just pulls the blankets up higher around them. His hand is at the small of Jev’s back, slipping under the hem of his shirt, stopping just short of the swell of his arse. Jev nuzzles at him, amazed at his own daring, even more so when André doesn’t push him away. André’s breath is hot and damp against his throat. He nudges his nose against André’s jaw, the prickle of stubble sending tiny shocks through him. André dips his head, inhales sharply and then they're kissing again, and Jean-Éric feels like he's about to melt into the bed. André’s mouth is slack and sleepy against his and he kisses so slowly it makes Jev feel like he's going insane, nibbling at the fullness of Jean-Éric’s bottom lip, sucking at it lightly until he gasps. Their bodies are pressed together, the heat from André’s skin seeping through his shirt and boxers.

It's not how he's imagined it, in so far as he’s ever allowed himself to: in his mind, sex with André has always been frantic, feral, tearing at each other's clothes and leaving bite marks and scratches littered across their skin. This is gentle and sweet, André holding him tightly against his body, his hand still pressed to the small of his back but otherwise making no effort to increase the pace. Jev feels like he’s underwater, like he’s drowning in it, his senses full up with warmth and softness and the feel of André’s mouth against his.

They pull away eventually, gasping for air, still mouthing at each other. Jev’s lips tingle where André’s teeth have worried at the flesh. “Go to sleep,” André whispers against Jev’s mouth, barely audible, and much as Jean-Éric wants to argue, wants to pull André down on top of him and strip him naked and do - god, do _everything_ \- he can feel his eyes growing heavier already. The last thing he remembers is André stroking a fond hand down the back of his neck, smoothing down the shorter hairs there and pulling him closer still.

 

He wakes up early the next morning needing to pee, still curled into André’s side. André is lying on his back, one arm beneath Jev’s neck. He looks younger in sleep. Jev blinks up at the ceiling for a few minutes, listening to André’s deep and even breathing. It’s not like he’s never fallen asleep next to André before; they’ve spent enough time on planes, crossing timezones, napping in garages over the past few months. Still, never in a bed, never like this. He’s surprised at how comfortable it feels, waiting for the inevitable panic to set in, but it doesn’t arrive.

Eventually his bladder hurts too much to stay in bed, and he carefully peels himself from André’s side. In the bathroom, he pisses, brushes his teeth, splashes some water on his face and glances at himself in the mirror. He looks differently lately, he thinks. More relaxed, happier. The tense lines, the tightness around his eyes he’d been accustomed to seeing whenever he looked at his own reflection have softened. He’s smiling more.

When he goes back into the bedroom, André is sitting up, propped on one elbow, drinking water from a glass left on the bedside table.

“Sorry,” Jev says. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s fine,” André says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He checks his watch and drops it back to the nightstand. “Ugh, it’s early, though.” He drops down on to his back, lifting one arm to cover his eyes. After a second, he lifts his arm enough to peer out at Jev from beneath it, expectant, until Jean-Éric slips beneath the covers again.

André rolls onto his side and cups Jean-Éric’s face with one hand, pressing their lips together without hesitation. Jean-Éric sighs against him, opening his mouth to André’s tongue shamelessly, running his fingertips up and down the warm skin of his upper arm. André shifts, tugging Jev’s body closer, and Jev gasps when he feels André’s erection nudging against his hip. Arousal spikes through the pit of his stomach with shocking clarity, cutting through any vestigial sleepiness.

It’s more like his fantasies now they’re both properly awake. André kisses with restrained intensity, nipping at his mouth to hear the sounds he makes, his thumb pressed into the hollow below his ear, rubbing at the softer skin there. His mouth is wet and cold from the water he’s been drinking, a counterpoint to the warmth of his body and the heat of his tongue as it licks into his mouth. Jean-Éric rolls them, André going with him easily, ending up on top of him. Jean-Éric groans, the breath squeezed out of him by André’s bulk in a way that drives him crazy, rolling his hips up to feel the heat and hardness of him.

“God,” Jean-Éric gasps out, fingers scrabbling at the smooth expanse of André’s lower back, slipping on the sweat-damp skin. He’s frenzied suddenly, arching from the bed, trying to press their bodies closer, mind short-circuiting. André laughs against him and grinds his hips down in a slow circle, watching Jev’s reactions intently. Jean-Éric closes his eyes, tips his head back, whining high-pitched and desperate already.

“You’re incredible,” André mutters against his jaw, biting at him, scraping his teeth over the stubble then licking over the reddened skin. Jean-Éric groans against him, turning his head to press their mouths together again, pushing his hand beneath the waistband of André’s boxers to squeeze his ass. It’s so intense, even though they’re just rutting against each other, Jev’s skin hot and prickling and his cock throbbing where it’s trapped against André’s thigh. The urge to surrender sings in every fibre of him, but he can’t find the words to tell André to take what he wants. He takes André’s hand by the wrist instead, brings it to his mouth, licking over his fingertips. André pushes his fingers into his mouth then drags them over his bottom lip, down his chin, wraps around his neck to hold him down while he kisses him again.

“I want to taste you,” André says into his mouth, and Jev shudders, digging his fingernails into the firm muscles of André’s ass, making him gasp and laugh and bite at Jean-Éric’s bottom lip in gentle retribution. He slides down Jev’s body, pushing his t-shirt up around his armpits so he can press kisses over his stomach. Jean-Éric is already shaking, hands moving over André’s face and through his hair.

André licks at the thin trail of hair on his belly, making him whine, rubbing at the shape of his erection and taking advantage of Jev’s hips lifting involuntarily to rid him of his boxers. Jev gasps when the cool air hits him, but it’s nothing compared to the sudden, shocking heat of André’s mouth covering him. Arousal shudders through him and he has to breathe deeply, clench his fists into the bedclothes, close his eyes because if he actually looks down and sees André’s mouth stretched around his cock he’s pretty sure he’ll come on the spot.

He’s taken apart systematically, André running his fingernails up the soft skin on the inside of thighs to make him shudder, tongue curling around him, and Jev knows he’s making ridiculous noises but can’t seem to stop, getting lost in the sensations. With his eyes closed it’s somehow even more intense, and when André draws back, teasing at the slit of his cock with the tip of his tongue before ducking his head back down until Jev’s cock hits the back of his throat, he can’t stop himself from crying out André’s name. His hand flutters across the crumpled bedsheets, fumbling, and he can’t help but sob when André reaches up and grabs his hand, entwining their fingers together, Jev holding on for dear life.

André pulls back for air, his mouth wet and red, kissing the crease of Jev’s thigh and running his thumb over Jev’s knuckles. “I've been thinking about what you look like when you come for the last six months,” he says, voice low, and Jev can’t hide the shiver that runs through him. André must feel it, because he smiles and lifts his head. He keeps his eyes trained on Jean-Éric’s as he takes him into his mouth again, hollowing his cheeks, gripping his hand tight. His eyes are dark and glittering, and Jev tries to take a mental photograph, tries to pin down the exact sweep of his eyelashes and the curve of his mouth around him in case he never sees it again, but then he has to close his eyes because his vision is whiting out anyway and all he can hear is a dull roar.

André sucks him dry until he's shaking, then crawls up his body and kisses him deeply. He tastes of salt and musk and Jean-Éric moans into his mouth, shoving André’s underwear down and clutching at him. André holds him down, thrusting against him, and Jev digs his fingers into the swell of his ass, can't get enough of the slick slide of André’s dick against his hip.

“Jev,” André gasps, and buries his face in Jev’s neck as he comes across his stomach, the gesture oddly shy. He's crushing Jev’s arm with his chest but Jev doesn't care, welcoming the pins and needles in exchange for feeling André trembling against him and licking the sweat from his neck.

Eventually André stirs, shifting his weight until he's next to Jev rather than right on top of him. He traces light circles into the dip of Jev’s stomach, and it occurs to Jev that he's just had sex with his teammate and maybe he should be worrying about that. He stares at the ceiling, waiting for his breathing to slow down. He doesn't know whether André is the type for post-coital cuddling, but right now he has a need to be held.

“I can hear you thinking,” André mumbles, pressing the flat of his hand to Jev’s chest. The firm pressure is oddly soothing, and he breathes out shakily, reaches up to take André’s hand.

“This is a lot to take in,” he says to the ceiling, the closest he can get to explaining himself, and André laughs, squeezes his fingers.

“You never met a good thing you couldn't think your way out of, did you?” he says affectionately, and Jev huffs out a breath, trying to be offended and not quite managing it. André clicks his tongue and props himself up on one elbow, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Okay, listen. We can lie here and I'll let you get on with whatever nervous breakdown you're having in peace, or we can get up, take a shower, go for a drive and get lunch. Which would you prefer?”

“The second one,” Jean-Éric admits after a pause, and André pats his chest, only mildly patronising.

“Correct answer,” he says, and kisses Jev’s temple, a chaste brush. He hesitates for a moment before he stands. “At some point you have to realise that you're worthy of having good things happen without looking for the catch.”

Jev blinks up at him, lost for words. André twists his mouth, that guarded almost-smile, and shrugs one shoulder before climbing out of bed and out of the room. Jev stays there for a long time, alone with his thoughts, André’s come cooling on his skin, listening to the shower run.

 

 


	6. Punta del Este

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably apologise for how long this has taken me: sorry. Much love to all the usual suspects who helped me out with this chapter and generally cheered me on. 
> 
> The plane Q&A bits are verbatim, because there was really no way to make it more gay than it actually was. Bless them.

They don’t talk about it. They talk _around_ it, sure, but it’s during a livestream on the plane to Punta del Este and Jev is mostly just concerned with not passing out or saying something wildly inappropriate when they’re asked whether they’re dating within two minutes of getting the damn thing working.

André’s gaze is on him and then off him, flickering like a strobe and mediated through the glitching display of the screen. Jev is jet lagged enough for reality to have acquired a dreamlike edge, and he watches André watching him, thinks about the way André’s stubble had felt against his own. When he looks back at the screen he realises he’s involuntarily scratching his fingertips through his beard. It’s André who recovers first and answers, barking laughter and addressing the screen: “Are you jealous?”

“I think you’re all jealous, no?” Jev agrees, concentrating on the flow of information across the bottom of the screen, more and more people joining to watch them. He wonders what they’re seeing, whether he’s as obvious as he feels. “But no ring yet. Where’s the ring?” He cranes his neck to look over at André. They’ve been given an entire row of seats and their bags and jackets are piled in between each other, less for the sake of propriety than for at least one of them to have something soft to nap on once the jet lag kicks in properly. To keep both of their faces in the frame, he has to lean across the seats and tilt his head up and across to catch André’s gaze. The fact that this angle also affords him a view of the fading, tiny bite mark he’d placed on the curve of André’s neck is simply a bonus.

He catches André’s eye for a split second, and André purses his lips slightly, switching his attention back to Jev’s phone. “I like longer hair,” he says, deadpan.

“I have long hair,” Jev says, tugging the strands to demonstrate. A prickle of nonsensical hurt bubbles in his chest and he pushes it down, irritated with himself. As if André is going to admit to anything on camera. As if both of their careers wouldn’t be over in a flash if he did. He’s gratified in a way that doesn’t reflect well on him when André’s composure finally slips and he turns away from the lens, laughing, leaving it to Jev to change the subject.

He can’t resist pushing it. There’s an ugly part of him that he’s been trying to come to terms with, the part of him that wants to take and take until there’s nothing left and whatever it is he wants to consume has been gnawed to the bone. When André says _I like longer hair_ and leers at the camera, whatever beast it is that lives in his stomach raises its sleepy head and bares its teeth.

He catalogues the slant of André’s eyes, the lowered lashes, the way André smirks and turns his face away when Jev asks him about the mile high club.

“You’re part of the mile high club if you have intercourse with your partner in an airplane,” André says with a curious flat precision, and turns his head as if in slow motion to meet Jev’s politely inquiring gaze. “Which I have done.”

Arousal fights jealousy in the pit of Jev’s stomach even as he keeps his voice steady. _When?_ he wants to yell. _Who with? Do I know them?_ Another driver, maybe, all those long haul flights, exhausted and wired after Le Mans and still tasting faintly of champagne? He skitters through the possibilities in the space of a millisecond, a pornographic flash-frame of Loïc on his knees in a cramped toilet, Bruno with his shirt untucked and jeans pushed low on his hips? No. Easier to imagine him with someone Jev doesn’t know and can’t compete with, someone _André_ didn’t know and didn’t care about afterwards. Just a quick fuck to take the edge off after a long race.

“Are you part of this club?” he asks, affecting bland curiosity, and André’s smirk broadens.

“I didn’t register, but I’m part of it,” he says, and lifts his eyebrows at Jev, who realises with a jolt that André is actively enjoying himself, the fucking bastard. For some reason it relaxes him, the thought that André is amused by his probing, probably knows exactly what he’s thinking and likes it.

He breathes, giggles, knows he’s turning red. André’s gaze is hot and steady on him for a second longer than necessary before he cracks up too and turns away. Thankfully, if nothing else the past five years have given Jev ample opportunity to learn to tamp down on his emotions in public, and he covers his mouth with his hand, an old habit, tells himself to get a grip.

 

The win doesn’t come to him easy, but it’s all the sweeter for it, and Jev makes a deal with himself: for this evening only, he’ll allow himself to believe.

André is smarting after another bad race, he knows, but Jev can’t bring himself to modulate his delight and make it more palatable for his teammate. He’s high on the thrill of winning in a way he rarely is these days, after half an hour siloed in a cockpit with an unresponsive radio, Di Grassi’s Audi looming large in his mirrors. The adrenaline doesn’t sour to irritation or overwhelm him to exhaustion as it sometimes does; he’s light as air, hugging anyone who passes, covered in sweat and champagne.

The drivers’ room is too small to contain both of their moods, but André is nothing if not tenacious and shuts the door behind himself, leaning back against it as he watches Jev strip himself out of his damp race suit, arms folded across his chest.

“Well done,” he says, and Jev smiles at him, only a little cautious. André’s face is inscrutable, just a slight curve of his lips which only jars against his narrowed eyes.

“Thanks,” Jev replies, wary, reaching for a towel and wiping the stickiness off his neck and chest. André’s eyes follow the movement. There’s a restlessness to him that Jev knows only too well, frustration with no outlet. If Jev touched him he thinks André would be vibrating with it, humming just below the skin. “You okay?”

André nods, blows out a breath and looks away, his shoulders dropping from where they’re braced against the door. Jev reaches out with the hand that isn’t holding the towel, thinking to touch him and - reassure him, maybe, comfort him - but loses his nerve at the last moment and drops his arm back to his side, helpless. André glances at him and Jev can’t tell whether he’d noticed the abortive movement or not, but he smiles slightly, just shy of a grimace. He nods to Jev, an upward jerk of the chin beckoning him over. “Come here.”

Jev steps closer and André reaches for him, curling his fingers into the soft fabric of his thermals where they’re loose around his waist and drawing him close. André tilts his head, scrutinising, and Jev fights the urge to duck his head. He’s not sure about this habit André has of just _looking_.

“What?” he says softly, a not-so-subtle attempt to break André’s intensity that makes the older driver blow out a breath in a soft laugh and push one hand into the damp hair at the base of his skull.

“Victory suits you,” André tells him, the corners of his lips lifting in a way that belies the quiet force behind his words. He tastes like sweat and stale water when he presses their lips together, and Jev licks at him, groaning, letting his bodyweight crush the air from André’s lungs just enough to make him grunt and shift. André’s hands are still snagged into the bunched fabric of his thermals, and he lifts an index finger without breaking the kiss, presses the tip hard into the soft and vulnerable space below Jev’s abductor muscle.

“Fuck,” Jev gasps, muffled, squirming. André curls his finger, nipping at the bow of Jev’s top lip in a parody of apology even as he increases the pressure. Jev shudders and collapses further against him, his body unsure whether or not to cringe away from the sharp throb or arch his back and beg for more. A Formula E car isn’t as physically demanding as some of the machines he’s been in charge of in the past, but he’s still tense and sore. The pinpoint of André’s nail where it bites into his flesh is another layer to the adrenalised ache as his body slowly uncoils itself from its temporary symbiosis with his car.

André breaks the kiss to laugh against his skin, pressing a chaste peck to what Jev assumes is meant to be his cheek but actually hits the side of his nose. “You’re sweet when you’re all keyed up,” he says, running his knuckles over the sore area on Jev’s side with some affection.

“Fuck you,” Jev says relatively mildly, trying to get his breathing back under control and straighten his hair out at the same time and mostly failing at both. After days of flirting with no payoff, the reality of André’s body against his and the feral edge of his grin combine to destroy any composure Jev had painstakingly built up around him. His hands are shaking.

André smirks, squeezes his forearm lightly and sidesteps away from where Jev is still standing too close, busying himself with untangling his headphone wires from the arm of his Ditas. The muscles of his shoulders shift beneath the thin fabric of his thermals, soaked through with sweat enough to be faintly transparent, and Jev watches him for a moment. It seems unbelievable that he’s shared a bed with this man, that he knows the exact spread of the birthmark above his navel and the way he bites his lip just before he comes as though the sensation is taking him by surprise.

It’s as if André is split into two distinct beings, each shimmering and blurring into the other but never entirely coalescing. André, his teammate, standing in front of him right now, hands smudged with engine oil and one hip dipped as he concentrates on unthreading cables, and André who had urged him into his own bed, undressed him and taken him apart with his mouth and hands. It would be so easy to drop to his knees right here, repay the favour and meld the two disparate selves into one. So what if André would have to bite a mouthful of his damp towel to stop himself crying out, so what if the walls in the garages are thin enough to barely qualify as walls at all, so what if they could throw away everything they’ve been working towards for years with one gesture? Jev allows himself a moment to think about it, the fantasy as lucid as any memory: cold linoleum floor on his knees, the silkiness of hot skin against his lips, the thick and satisfying weight of flesh on his tongue. André looks up at him and smiles, questioning, and the illusion breaks.

  

He doesn’t mean to drink as much as he does, but the thrill of the win combine with the sensation thrumming just below his skin that he has no other word for than _André_ , and by the time someone suggests Jaegermeister he’s too drunk to even consider how bad an idea shots are.

The bar overlooks the Playa Brava, decked out in flowers and dried grasses in a desultory concession towards being a tiki bar. André casts an eye over the decor with an expression Jean-Éric can only categorise as _appalled_ , but he sounds cheerful enough when he turns to Jev and says, “Well, I think this calls for mai tais, doesn’t it?”

Trying to match André drink-for-drink is always a recipe for disaster, given the slight disparity in their sizes and the fact that André is a significantly less sloppy drunk than Jev in general, but fuck it: they’re in a foreign country, he’s winning races regularly enough that he can allow himself to take sneaking sideways glances at the championship without immediately panicking that he’s jinxed himself, he deserves a night off. _Fuck it_ is the energy he carries right through the night, saying yes to every drink he’s offered, smoking illicit cigarettes with his bare feet in the ocean, ignoring the sharp edges of shells that cut into his soles. It’s in the way he somehow ends up in a discarded bathtub with André, being pushed down the beach by the engineers and praying the entire thing doesn’t overturn and kill one of them in what would surely be the stupidest possible way to die. It’s also in the way he ends up pressed against a rough wood-hewn wall near the bathrooms, necking with André in a way he hasn’t since he was about nineteen, André’s hands kneading the flesh of his arse. It’s utterly reckless, they’re barely five feet away from the rest of the team and assorted members of _other_ teams who’ve wandered over to join the festivities, literally all of whom possess camera phones and unknown levels of bigotry. Jev has been telling himself he needs to stop and get a grip for the past five minutes but all he’s managed to do is nearly knock himself out by throwing his head back when André ducks down to bite at the curve of his neck.

“I want to fuck you,” André says against his skin, tickling. It occurs to Jev for a brief second that he probably doesn’t mean right now, that he’s just saying it as a sexy thing to say, as if the risk of being discovered grinding against the wall by anyone from their boss to their on-track rivals isn’t transgressive enough for him.

He means to ignore it, really he does, but maybe he’s more drunk than he realises because the words tumble out of him before he can restrain himself. “Yeah, do it, I want it.”

André makes a hungry noise, involuntary, and Jev realises with a kind of vicious delight that he’s managed to shock his teammate, that André hadn’t been expecting him to say yes either. It spurs him on, sliding his hands down André’s forearms where he’s still palming at Jev’s ass through his jeans and pressing at the backs of his hands, encouraging André to spread his cheeks and dip his fingers between them, running curiously over the seam of his jeans. Jev lifts one leg, wrapping his thigh around André’s so he can rub up against him harder. The recklessness, the wantonness of his pose is as much of a turn-on in itself as the feel of André’s erection nudging his own. Despite André’s body covering his own, he’s exposed, legs spread, André’s mouth wide and wet against his throat. If anyone saw them now, there would be no explaining it away.

Something rises up through him, a lust unlike anything he’s ever felt before beginning at the point where André’s fingers grope between his legs and tendrilling up his spine, poleaxing him. If André wanted to fuck him right there by the bathrooms he’d do it gladly.

André breathes out, almost a groan, digging his fingers hard into the crease of Jev’s thighs until he whines. The alcohol in his veins dulls the edge of the pain, but the sensation is no less overwhelming and he pushes his hips hard into André’s and says, “I’m serious, André, fuck me.”

“You’re amazing,” André slurs against his jaw, licking a hot stripe up his damp skin and stepping back, fixing Jev with a hard stare. “But not here. Let’s go.”

  

The timeshare is just that - shared - and Antonio’s room backs directly on to Jev’s, but last time he'd checked Tonio had still been at the bar, and anyway he doesn't much care right now if the other driver has to endure a sleepless night listening to them. There are clothes and toiletries spread across the bed where he'd dragged them out of his suitcase between the race and the night out, but he doesn't stop to clear them away, just pulls André down on top of them and him, fisting his hands into André’s t-shirt tightly enough that he hears the seams begin to rip. The rush of not caring spurs him on and he moans André’s name loud enough to carry through the walls, just in case anyone is around to hear. André chokes on laughter, pushing himself up to straddle Jev properly and shoving his t-shirt up around his armpits so he can bite his way down Jev’s warm skin.

Once again, the reality isn't quite what he had expected. Since that night in Belgium he’s thought about it plenty, sometimes with intent, jacking off hard and fast with two fingers pushed inside himself; sometimes in idle fantasy as he's falling asleep, not really turned on, pleasant warmth blooming low in his stomach. Whatever the context, in his reveries they'd always fucked slowly, Jev on his back with André’s forehead pressed to his, or else riding him, André holding his hips in place. Instead he ends up pressed facedown into creased blankets, André’s weight plastered along his left-hand side, breathing harsh against the back of his neck. They are at least sober enough to bother with prep, André raising a smug eyebrow when Jev pulls lube and condoms out of his bag. Jev doesn't think it necessary to tell him that he'd agonised about bringing them, packing and unpacking them endlessly, worried he'd jinx his chances by being presumptuous. He doesn't think it necessary to do anything, in fact, but rut against his own bedsheets, gasping, as André bites at the shorter hair on the back of his neck and fucks into him with two and then three fingers.

“You're so fucking tight,” André says into his hair, and Jev whines, fisting the sheets and pushing his hips back. “Let me get inside you, Jev, c’mon.”

“Yes,” Jev manages to get out, barely able to move his mouth where André’s weight has him pressed against the bed. “André, fuck me.”

There's a brief pause in the movements, André withdrawing his fingers slowly and with more care than Jev expects, nuzzling the curve of his neck and mouthing over the nub of his spine. The sounds of sex are familiar to him: crinkling foiled plastic, the wheeze of the pump on the bottle of lube, the wet snap of the condom and André’s bitten-off grunt as he slicks himself up. Jev closes his eyes to hear better, burying his face in the blankets. The blood pulses steadily in his ears, the alcohol and arousal combined. He feels a little bit sick, a little bit nervous, thighs trembling minutely. When André nudges his legs apart to kneel between them, leaning over him with his upper body braced so close to Jev’s back he can feel the radiated heat, he jumps not with surprise but the sheer intensity of André’s touch on his skin.

The head of André’s cock is thick and hot where it presses against him, slippery with lube. It feels good to moan André’s name as he sinks inside a little quicker than is truly comfortable, and Jev savours the slight burn, mouth open and wetting the blankets with his saliva. André drops his forehead to the back of his neck, breathing _fuck, fuck_ and _oh god_ against Jev’s skin. Jev wriggles, spreads his legs out further, gripping at the blankets with his toes to give himself more leverage.

André stays where he is for a moment, his body plastered against Jev’s, holding at least some of his weight through his forearms but not enough that Jev can breathe easily. In a sudden burst of sobriety, it occurs to Jev that it’s been five years since he last got fucked. He’d forgotten how good it could feel, André’s body simultaneously covering him and possessing him, and he makes a quiet, hungry sound. He can smell tequila and fruit juice on André’s breath where he’s gasping into the curve of Jev’s neck.

The sheer onslaught of sensation, pleasure and slight pain alike, is enough to sober him slightly, and he struggles toward lucidity, not wanting it to pass in a drunken blur, trying to reassure himself that he’ll be able to remember this when he wakes up tomorrow. André bites at his shoulder and Jev cries out before he can stop himself; not so sober as he’d hoped.

“Wait, wait,” André mutters against his shoulder, his hips slowing, and Jev stiffens, fighting the urge to hide his face in the blankets reflexively. Through the haze, a memory comes back to him with startling clarity: kneeling between Dan’s thighs with Dan’s hand at his shoulder, urging him back. For some reason what Jev remembers most clearly is the way his bottom lip had snagged on the metalwork of his braces as he’d twisted his mouth and laughed nervously: _Wait, wait, Jev. I’m not sure this is like, the best idea._

“Hey,” André says, mouth very close to his ear, and Jev makes a muffled sound that isn’t really anything. André still sounds drunk, his vowels elongated and blurring into one another. Jev closes his eyes; if André’s changed his mind, he’d rather he just left than try to explain. André’s fingers brush at the damp hair curling on his temple. “ _Hey_ ,” André says, a little more distinct, tapping at the soft skin of his eye socket. “Turn over. I want to see your face when you come.”

Jev laughs, can’t help himself, a sharp exhale that makes André squint at him. It’s on the tip of his tongue to explain, apologise, but then André, clearly losing interest or patience or both, begins the slightly tricky process of extricating himself from the tangle of Jev’s limbs and the blankets. He pulls out of Jev with surprising care once again, one hand on his hip to steady him, all his loose-limbed drunkenness temporarily forgotten.

“There we go,” André says once he’s arranged Jev’s long limbs to his liking, his legs wrapped around André’s waist loosely, grinning down at him. “Now I can see you.”

“I’m not even close yet,” Jev tells him, wondering yet again at this fascination André has with looking at him, whether it’s a good thing or not. André’s face sharpens into something a little feral, his grin sliding into a smirk.

“Is that a challenge, Vergne?” he says. His mouth curls around Jev’s name with obscene satisfaction, tongue touching teeth, and Jev marvels once again at the ability André has to infuse the slightest gestures with barely-restrained carnality. He opens his mouth but doesn’t get a chance to reply because André is pushing inside him again in one smooth movement; all he can do is cry out and arch up to meet him.

If he were being brutally honest, it’s not the best sex he’s ever had and he thinks the same is true for André: they’re both a little too uncoordinated to truly find a rhythm, a little too drunk to truly sink into it the way he wants. But the dumb animal pleasure of the fucking, the reality of André inside him and biting at his jaw, is overlaid with a giddy joy that makes him want to shout. The high of André’s body moving against his, the way he murmurs Jev’s name with a kind of dazed wonder, rivals the high of lifting any trophy he’s ever won. He thinks, vaguely, about taking a photo, posting it on Instagram. _Look what I have._ The thought, ludicrous as it is, fills his belly with a warm pride that has nothing to do with the pleasure from André’s cock moving inside him.

André comes first, his thrusts growing more and more erratic as he holds Jev’s hips in place, breathing in sharp staccato bursts. He's oddly quiet as he comes, his whole body going still and rigid apart from the spasmodic jerking of his hips, his eyes closed and mouth open. Jev rakes his blunt fingernails up André’s shoulders, pushing his hands hard into his hair in an attempt to anchor André back into the room with him. André blinks, laughing breathlessly, leaning down to press dry kisses to the edge of Jev’s beard.

“Give me a second,” he murmurs, sagging and breathing deep, while Jev squirms below him, impatient and needy. Jev whines, rolling his hips and making André hiss. The sound of voices floats through the thick stone walls, and Jev wonders with a start how long they've had company in the house, whether anyone really _had_ seen them at the club. He cranes his neck back to look at the wall that backs on to Antonio’s room, giggling softly, and André laughs too, slumping to the bed beside him and nipping fondly at his shoulder.

“Do you think they heard?” Jev murmurs, trailing off into a moan as André runs a hand up his thigh and cups his testicles lightly, rolling them, a gentle reminder that he’s still hard.

“Probably,” André whispers back. Jev’s eyes are closed but he can hear the smirk. André licks over the muscles in his neck, biting gently at the soft swell of his earlobe. “Get yourself off for me, I want to see you come.”

“God,” Jev gasps, pushing his face into the bunched pillows and André’s hair, now curling beneath its layer of sweet-smelling wax. He slides a hand down his stomach without really thinking about it, wrapping his fingers around himself. André makes a pleased sound into his neck, his fingers probing lower, nudging at Jev’s knuckles where his hand moves on himself. When he pushes his fingers back inside Jev it makes him cry out, a throaty sound that surprises him, instinctively bearing down so he can rock against it. André fucks his fingers in slowly, almost stroking, his breath hot and alcoholic against Jev’s neck.

“You’re being loud,” André whispers, his voice still laced with laughter, and Jev thrashes at him with his spare hand, the thought of being heard still adding to his pleasure. Exhibitionism isn’t usually something he has a tendency towards, but something about being with André makes him want to tell the world.

He stills just before he comes, unconsciously echoing André, biting his lip and arching off the bed as everything tightens. In his experience drunk sex usually results in a muted orgasm, a faint shadow of the toe-curling bliss he knows he’s capable of, but André’s fingers inside him give him an edge to hone his pleasure on. For a moment’s he’s caught on the edge, acutely aware of his own ragged breaths and the faint arhythmic thud of footsteps in the hallway outside, of André murmuring something too slurred and soft for him to pick out the individual words. Then André pushes up against him, a full-body wriggle, and thrusts his fingers in deep, curling them with a wicked precision. His orgasm is slow and soft, wave after wave of heat washing through him and the sharp static buzz of André’s fingers still moving inside him, making his hips jerk, his hand slick and hot with his own come.

  

When he wakes up the next morning, André isn’t in the bed with him. They’d fallen asleep tangled together, André kicking off the blanket with a disgruntled sound as Jev had tried to pull it over them, shivery post-orgasm and beginning to sober up. Never a sound sleeper when he’s been drinking, Jev had woken in the middle of the night, the room tinged bruise-purple from the faint moonlight and storm lights surrounding the pool outside. André had been facing slightly away from him, snuffling lightly, hair falling over his eyebrow in an appealing curl. His arm was bent back in a way that looked uncomfortable, the hand spread possessively over Jev’s thigh where his leg poked from beneath the mussed blankets. Jev had stared down sleepily at it in the half-light for a moment, smiling to himself, before dozing off again.

Now, the bed is cold enough for Jev to think it’s been empty for some time, and he lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling fan turning its lazy circles and the dust motes that fall from it in a shaft of sunlight. The effect is oddly hypnotic, and coupled with the mildly dissociative effects of his hangover and ever-present jetlag, he feels like he’s in an arty film, the kind he wants to take André to see even though he knows they’d secretly both prefer the latest Will Ferrell comedy.

He tries to sort his meandering thoughts into some kind of order, placing the fractured memories of the previous night into a vague chronology. His ass hurts when he shifts against the bed in a way that he finds vaguely satisfying, and he closes his eyes, running his fingertips over his nipples, luxuriating in the memories of André inside him even through the headache threatening at his temples.

Their flights are booked for early afternoon, and eventually he drags himself out of bed and into the shower. He passes Antonio in the corridor on his way to the bathroom, mumbling a good morning and trying to ignore the smirk he receives in response. André is conspicuous by his absence.

By the time he’s showered, dressed and halfway through his second cup of coffee and a substandard pain au raisin, he has to admit to himself that André has apparently not only vacated Jev’s bed but in fact the entire house. Just to check, he knocks softly at André’s bedroom door on his way to the toilet. Receiving no answer, he pushes the heavy wooden door ajar. The room is untidy, though the blankets are pulled across the bed as though someone has attempted to straighten them and given up halfway through. The closet door hangs open, showing its empty interior. André’s suitcase is gone from its usual resting place propped beneath the window. Jev stands in the doorway for longer than he needs to, not quite sure what to do, then closes the door as softly as he can and goes out to the pool.

He chews at his thumbnail for a while, scrolling through his Instagram. After the fifth time of refreshing it irritably, there’s no way he can pretend like he’s not just waiting for André to post a story and explain his whereabouts.

The air is still stormy and oppressive, and a thin film of sweat already has his t-shirt sticking to the small of his back. He rolls up his jeans so he can dangle his feet into the cool water. The stray cats lurking in the bushes around the pergola ignore him when he makes kissy noises and pats his thigh encouragingly, and after a few minutes he gives up on trying to entice them over in favour of staring moodily into the turquoise depths of the chlorinated water.

_You left early_ , he sends to André in a rush of neediness, unable to make it sound any less petulant. Anyway, he thinks he’s within his rights to sound pissed off. André’s easy relationship with his own tendency towards rudeness makes it easy to feel churlish around him. A door bangs shut behind him and Jev twists round with embarrassing speed, his stomach lifting and then dropping painfully when he sees it’s just Antonio.

“How’s the hangover?” Antonio calls across the pool. He’s topless, wearing a pair of slightly oversized jeans that look genuinely ancient and battered rather than the pre-frayed ones he and André buy. In his right hand is a glass of something that looks suspiciously like a Bloody Mary. The thought of more alcohol makes Jev’s stomach twist.

Jev shrugs. “Fine. I’ll sleep on the plane.” Already accustomed once again to speaking French with André, English sits heavy on his sluggish tongue, worsening his headache with its sharp plosives. Antonio scratches his armpit and looks at Jev curiously for a moment. Jev braces himself; he knows they were loud enough to be overheard last night and doesn’t know if he can cope with teasing or intrusive questions about what the hell he thinks he’s doing by fucking his teammate, even though Antonio is well within his rights to ask. The fear of awkward questions in the stark light of the morning after jars with the reckless pride he’d felt last night, the desire for the world to know how willingly he’d spread his legs for his teammate. He finds himself, improbably, missing Paris, the taste of fresh baguette and gruyere grand cru from the market near his parents’ house, drinking cafe au lait with Lea on Sunday mornings as a teenager and kicking her shins beneath the scrubbed wood table.

Perhaps his misery shows on his face beneath the more general combination of tired and hungover, because Antonio just nods and raises his drink in a salute of sorts. “Speaking of planes, I need to go pack,” he says, a gentle get-out clause, and Jev nods and struggles to his feet. His head is swimming and every time one of them mentions planes he thinks about the heat in André’s gaze as he explained the mile high club.

The pink circle around his username on Instagram signifies that the live cast is still available for him to view. He hovers his thumb over the icon and then locks his phone again, exasperated. Antonio is right; they should pack.

The stray cats are stretched out in a shaft of sunlight on the warm portico tiles. They ignore him as he goes back inside.

  


	7. Before Rome (Poole and Mayfair)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got away from me a bit. Features Heart of Gold Sam in his emotional support role and a lot of angst. Thank you once again to everyone who has commented and left kudos, and been patient with how bloody long it's taking me to write this. Thanks to the André Off the Grid video for helping me out with a creepily accurate portrayal of Jev's soft furnishings.

When Jev rings him, miserable and anxious at 11am on a Thursday morning, Sam has the good grace to at least pretend he thinks Jev is worried about the championship.

“You alright, bud?” he says when he picks up the phone, the concern in his voice a marker of just how little Jev’s bothered to keep in contact with Sam in recent months. He used to ring Sam just for a chat, back when they were teammates. Nowadays, if he wants to talk to someone, it’s usually André. Fuck. Jev sighs loudly even though he knows it’s probably filling Sam’s ear with static.

“Are you talking to me or the dog?”

He can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes through the phone. “You. The dog’s out with Hollie. What’s up?”

“How do you know something’s up?” Jev scowls at the brightly-coloured print on his living room wall. “Maybe I just want to see how you are.”

Sam laughs, the sound blurry through the speaker. “I’m fine, and you’re doing that thing you do when you want somebody to fix your life without having to tell anyone what’s wrong. Spit it out, Jev.”

There’s a short pause, during which Jev wrestles with being pathetically grateful for Sam’s continued presence in his life and also with the childish temptation to tell him to fuck off and put the phone down. Sam breathes down the phone, waiting patiently. “It’s André.” The words come out as a pained whine, and Jev would be disgusted with himself if he hadn’t already given up on the idea of coming out of this season with a single shred of his dignity intact.

Sam is quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks there’s an edge of care to his voice, any inflection deliberately smoothed out. “I know he got the podium with you a few races back, mate, but it’s hardly like he’s challenging -”

“I don’t mean the _racing,_ ” Jev interrupts, huffing out a breath. “God, Sam. Don’t patronise me on top of everything else.”

Sam sighs heavily. “No, that would’ve been too simple. You don’t make life easy for yourself if you can help it, do you?” Jev doesn’t reply, just listens to the quiet scuffling on the other end of the line as Sam moves about his house, a sharper noise in the distance that he thinks might be a coffee cup being placed on a sideboard. He misses Sam desperately all of a sudden, his easygoing nature and gentle refusal to indulge the worst of Jev’s moods. “Look, if you’re telling me what I think you’re telling me, you should probably come ‘round. I’ve got some stuff to get done this morning, but if you want to drive down, I’ve got no plans later on.”

Jev feels his shoulders slumping in relief. Thank god for Sam. “Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Sam says. “I’ll text Hol, get her to pick up a beef joint or something.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Jev says, aware that he sounds relatively feeble, but then fuck it, Sam’s seen him in worse states before and hasn’t disowned him yet. “It’ll be nice to see you.”

“You too,” Sam says warmly. “I’ll see you around three, yeah?”

 

The drive to Poole is a relatively easy one, a couple of hours of following the uninspiring grey drift of the M3 through the south-west. It’s boiling hot outside, the heatwave unexpected and muggy. The sun warms his skin where it glances through the windscreen despite the climate control in the car. He’s queasy, a little light-headed with the vestiges of a two-day hangover. The Nespresso pod he’d decanted into a screw-top mug before he left hasn’t so much sharpened him up as given him the shakes.

His thoughts are cluttered and sticky, clinging to the walls of his skull, and an hour into the journey he realises the radio he’d switched on before he set out is doing nothing to distract him, simply providing a background noise to his spiralling thoughts. When he slows to join the back of a queue at a toll bridge, he jabs at the touchscreen panel on the dashboard until it links to his phone, switches on an audiobook, some crime thriller he’d downloaded at an airport a few weeks ago. The lurid descriptions of bloodshed turn his stomach slightly, incongruous against the idyllic British countryside visible from the motorway, but the convoluted plot provides the distraction he needs to calm down enough to complete the drive.

Sam answers the door dressed in sweatpants and an old Ramones t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower and his arms full of wriggling, barking cavapoo.

“Hey, Jev,” he says cheerfully, holding out the yipping bundle. “You look terrible. Let me get your bag.”

Jev, who had dropped his overnight bag to the floor immediately in favour of holding out his arms for Buddy anyway, nudges it over with his foot whilst burying his face in the dog’s soft fur, breathing in his puppy scent and cooing to him with every term of endearment he can think of, French or English. Sam bears it patiently for a few seconds before taking Jev by the elbow, hoisting his bag in the other hand and leading him inside, still paying more attention to Buddy than to where he’s walking.

Hollie waves at him from the scrubbed wooden table in the dining room where she’s sat in front of her laptop, and Jev goes over to greet her with a kiss her on the cheek before slumping down on to the grey corduroy sofa with a moderately overdramatic sigh which is mostly to hide the fact that he’s abruptly so dizzy he’s not sure he can stay standing.

“You want a drink?” Sam asks, trying in vain to stop the dog from following Jev up on to the sofa.

Jev debates asking whether he’s got any wine open, but he doesn’t really want Sam to know how much he’s been drinking during the day so far this week. “Coffee, please. Thanks.”

“No, honey,” Hollie says, peering at him over the top of her Macbook. “He needs a cup of tea. With sugar.”

Jev blinks at her, and she gives him a gentle smile. Sam shrugs and disappears to the kitchen, and Hollie closes her laptop and sighs. “I’ve got a meeting. I’ll be back in a few hours. There’s a lamb joint in the oven. Tell Sam he needs to peel the potatoes.”

“Thank you,” Jev says, standing to give her a hug. She ruffles his hair and then the dog’s, kissing Sam on the cheek as she passes him on his way back in with steaming mugs of Yorkshire tea.

“Has she really got a meeting?” Jev asks once she’s left.

“Nah,” Sam says fondly. “I think she’s just giving us some alone time. Nobody needs an audience for their problems.”

Jev pulls a face and takes a careful sip of his tea. Not for the first time, he finds himself jealous of Hollie and Sam, their easy domesticity, the kids’ toys on the floor and the wedding photo framed in the front hall. It’s less glamorous than the life he’s used to, and he wonders if it makes him ungrateful that he’d swap his lifestyle of champagne and chateaux for this in a heartbeat if anyone would have him.

“Alright,” Sam says, dropping into the armchair opposite and tucking his feet up beneath himself, blowing across the surface of his tea to cool it. “So it’s André.”

Jev makes an indistinct sound and switches his attention to Buddy, who’s chewing the laces of his Berlutis, looking cute enough that Jev doesn’t have the heart to bat him away. Sam tuts and leans over to pick up a chew toy from the carpet, tossing it over. “So, feel free to correct me if this is just hearsay gone horribly wrong, but I got a text from Antonio last week.”

When Jev flinches but says nothing, Sam hesitates, then continues. “I’ll spare you the details, but the gist of it was that he was pretty convinced he’d overheard you and André…” He trails off, clearly searching for a delicate phrasing. “Well, he’d overheard you both in bed when he got back from the afterparty in Punta, is what he seemed to think. And then the next morning he saw André coming out of your room when he was on his way for a piss, and he…made some comment, he didn’t say exactly what, and André completely blanked him, walked off in the other direction. Tonio was still a bit fucked so he just went back to bed, but when he got up again later there was no sign of André and you were outside looking like you wanted to drown yourself in the pool.”

There’s a short pause in which Jev assumes he’s meant to either confirm or deny the gossip, but which he actually spends thinking about all the horrible, violent things he wants to do to Antonio. He glances up. Sam is watching him with the kind of sad sympathy that normally would make Jev want to tell him to fuck off, but to his surprise he finds that all he really wants is a hug. He doesn’t say that, though, just looks away, concentrates on the steam rising of his mug of tea and his breathing, in and out.

“I haven’t heard from him since then,” Jev says miserably, when it becomes clear Sam is going to wait for him to speak. He does not add _I haven’t left the house since then, I’ve barely eaten since then, I’ve drunk four bottles of wine and half a litre of Stolichnaya since then._

“Well, it’s only been four days,” Sam says, then sighs and scrubs his hand through his hair. “Was it the first time you’d, um.”

Jev rolls his eyes. The movement makes his head spin and he finds he has to shut them completely, nausea swelling against the warmth of the tea sitting in his stomach. He tips his head back so it’s resting against the back of the sofa, suddenly too weary to hold it up anymore. “Things had happened before. Mexico was the first time. He seemed fine about it. Both times, he seemed fine."

They’d been booked on different flights home anyway, André heading back to Gordes and Jev to his flat in London. It hadn’t stopped him from spending the entirety of his three-hour wait at the airport craning his next to scan the clumps of sunburned tourists for André’s grey hair and slim waist. He opens one eye, rolling his head to look over at Sam. “I really like him. I thought this was - I don’t know.” The words are painful as he says them, dragging them out unwillingly with their barbs stuck in his throat. “I thought he liked me too, you know?”

Sam reaches over, squeezes his ankle gently. His face is clouded with concern. “I’m glad you came to see me,” he says obliquely. “I haven’t heard from you for a while, I thought you’d abandoned me.”

Jev turns the words over in his mind; Sam is watching him intently. “It’s been a busy year,” he says, unsure why he feels the need to defend himself when they’re meant to be talking about his problems.

“With André,” Sam says, voice carefully neutral. Jev looks away.

The dog, seeming to sense his bad mood, abandons his chew toy and pads over to Jev, who reaches down to stroke him, grateful for the distraction. Buddy whines and licks over his knuckles and, stupidly, it reminds Jev of André, kissing those same knuckles as they lay in André’s bed in Nivelles. He presses his lips together hard, determined not to start sniffling. Sam knows more about him than almost anyone but that doesn’t mean he wants to start crying over his teammate in front of him. They’re still competitors just as much as they’re friends, and for a moment Jev wonders whether he should be here at all. But then, he thinks with another wave of despair that makes him want to moan out loud, if not here, where?

“Look,” Sam says wearily. “I know you really like him. It’s not hard to see that. I can’t say I see the attraction, but I’ll take your word for it.” When Jev scowls at him, he shrugs. “I’m just saying, he seems a bit arrogant to me. I don’t want you to get hurt by some prick who thinks he’s god’s gift because he’s won a few WEC races.”

“He won _Le Mans_ ,” Jev says, scandalised. “ _Three times._ ”

Same waves a hand. “Look, I know, I know. I’m not denying the guy’s talented, and you’re obviously very close. But he’s, what, 35?”

“36,” Jev mumbles. “His birthday was November.”

“Right, he’s 36 and he still thinks fucking and running is an acceptable way to conduct himself, then…” Sam trails off, chewing at his bottom lip. “Well, he’s either an immature idiot, which you don’t seem to think is the case, or - and going by what Antonio told me this seems a pretty reasonable guess - he’s fucking petrified.”

Jev sniffs once, can’t help himself. “I could kill Antonio.”

“It’s not really his fault,” Sam points out gently. “And he didn’t tell anyone else. He only told me because he was worried about you.” He’s silent for a moment, drinking the last of his tea. “You need to talk to him, though.”

“How can I do that when he won’t reply to my texts?” Jev snaps. He’s texted André three times since the three-word accusation the day after the race: one attempt at a breezy catch-up, one slightly less breezy _are you seriously ghosting me?_ and one drunkenly misspelled paragraph sent after midnight the night after that, which he’d deleted without re-reading that morning, appalled and sick to his stomach.

“I don’t know,” Sam says honestly after a moment. “But he’s gonna have to see you eventually, what with the fact that you work together.”

“Workplace romances,” Jev says with a weak attempt at a smile. “I heard they’re a bad idea.”

Sam gets up, squeezing Jev’s shoulder. “Drunk at the office party. At least you didn’t photocopy your bum.” Crossing to the sideboard, he picks up a purple webbing leash, prompting Buddy to start barking in ecstasy. “Come on, let’s go for a walk. Did you eat lunch?”

Jev’s evasive shrug is apparently answer enough, and Sam nods to himself, refuses to listen to Jev’s weak protests when he takes them to the fish and chip shop on the seafront and buys cod and chips and mushy peas for them both. Jev feeds most of his mushy peas and half the batter off his cod to Buddy, but Sam refuses to move, chin tucked into his windbreaker against the icy sea wind, until Jev’s finished his chips.

 

He stays in Sam and Hollie’s spare room that night, feeling a little bit like a kid as Hollie finds him a set of matching towels and a wrapped miniature soap for the en-suite bathroom and sends him to bed early with a mug of Earl Grey. They’d eaten roast lamb with hasselback potatoes and drunk a couple of bottles of pinot noir from a vineyard in Totnes which Jean-Éric had begrudgingly admitted was pretty good “for an English wine”, prompting hoots of derision from Sam.

Sam claps him on the shoulder before they part ways to go to their respective bedrooms, then draws him into a hug. Jev buries his face in Sam’s hair, drawing small comfort from the warm weight of the smaller man against him and trying not to think about how much he wishes it was André’s.

“You’ll be fine,” Sam says, sounding very certain about it. “One way or another, it’ll sort itself out.”

“Yeah,” Jev agrees weakly, wishes he could sound more convinced. Sam sighs and pats his arm, whistling for Buddy as he goes to take him outside to pee one final time. Jev watches them through the doorway, Sam in his grey flannel dressing gown, so secure in the love he’s found. With a prickle of sadness, he realises he’s never experienced that before. His most serious girlfriends have all been models and actresses, so beautiful he’d felt like pinching himself every time they’d allowed him into their knickers. His experiences with men have been largely limited to one-night stands, guys he’d met in clubs or his ill-fated teenage fumbling with Dan. Until recently, he’d never thought he’d been missing out. He lives a glamorous lifestyle, he gets to drive fast cars and gets paid very well for it; so what if he can’t hold down a relationship because he’s never in one country longer than a week? He knows plenty of people who’d laugh in his face for thinking he’s hard done by with his casual flings with lingerie models.

Maybe it’s just that he’s getting older, but god, it’s not enough.

 

It’s early evening by the time he drives back into London’s snarled traffic, the sun low in the sky. He’s tired from the drive but, he finds, calmer, more settled if only for a proper night’s sleep and a few good meals inside him instead of excess alcohol swilling around an empty stomach. They’d gone for another walk in the morning, Buddy racing along the pebbled beach and barking at seagulls, Sam and Jev sharing a thermos of coffee and terrible croissants out of a plastic bag from the supermarket. “You do realise they will not let me back into Paris if they find out I’ve been eating these,” Jev had said, dunking a dry corner into his coffee to try to make it more edible.

He’s not really concentrating as he climbs the stairs back up to his flat, trying to dig his front door keys out of the pockets of his tight jeans while juggling his overnight bag, the bag of groceries and the takeaway cup of coffee he’d picked up from the shop across the street beforehand, and so he nearly doesn’t see André sitting on the stairs outside his hallway.

“Jesus, André!” he exclaims as André starts talking at the same time, standing up so quickly he nearly knocks Jev straight back down the stairs again. It’s ludicrous, like a scene from a rom-com only Jev’s not finding any of this funny, and _what the fuck is he doing?_ Jev doesn’t know if he’s relieved that André’s here or furious that he thinks he can just disappear for days and then turn up like this with no warning. The warring emotions paralyse him, and he can only stand and glare at André who’s still struggling to his feet, his legs apparently stiff enough to be uncooperative. Peripherally, Jev realises he’s gripping his bags hard enough to hurt.

André finally manages to straighten up and looks at Jev, opens his mouth to say something and then, to Jev’s combined fury and confusion, starts laughing.

“What the fuck?” Jev snaps. The surge of anger breaks his paralysis and he starts up the stairs again, trying to shoulder his way past André to get to his own goddamn front door. André catches him easily on the way past, one hand at his elbow, taking the coffee cup out of his hand. Jev catches a wave of his cologne and almost sways with misery. André is still giggling slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping at his eyes with the hand that’s not holding the coffee cup. “You looked like an angry cat. If you had fur, it would be all stuck up on end. I thought you were going to start hissing at me.”

“Fuck off,” Jev mutters, although he allows André to take the bag of shopping so he can unlock the front door without having to put everything down. It occurs to him that he could just slam the door in André’s face, but he finds that his neediness outweighs his spite. Besides, he thinks as he’s kicking off his shoes, there’s some sea bass in the carrier bag André’s holding that he’s been looking forward to for his dinner.

André nudges past him into the kitchen without asking first, starts putting away the groceries while Jev stares at him. Usually he finds André’s casual tendency to make himself at home in Jev’s spaces endearing, but today it sets his teeth on edge. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

André pauses where he’s bent into the fridge, still clutching a tub of crème fraîche. The light inside the fridge casts his face into a warm golden glow that makes Jev’s stomach twist with desire even amidst the rage. He leans against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

“Sam texted me this morning,” André admits after a moment, putting the tub down carefully and twisting it so that the label faces outward. He dips back into the carrier bag, taking out a head of garlic and gazing at it as though it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Jev curses under his breath. “He gave me a pretty good bollocking. He’s pretty angry for such a small guy.”

Jev slides his hands behind himself, pressing them hard against the wall in an attempt to stave off the panic. “How long were you sitting outside my flat for?” It’s not the question he wants to ask, but it’s the only one he thinks he can bear the answer to right now.

André rubs his thumb over the dry stalk of the garlic meditatively and then drops it on to the shelf, smiling slightly. “About an hour. I think your neighbours think I’m casing the joint.”

Jev bites the inside of his cheek to tamp down on the smile that wants to get out. André sighs to himself, straightens and closes the fridge door carefully. “Anyway, Sam told me you were driving up from his this afternoon, so I took a flight. Prayed you hadn’t decided to get the ferry over to Calais or something.”

“You couldn’t reply to my texts but you _took a flight?_ ” Jev says, mocking André’s flippant tone. “Why are you here?” His voice rises in a kind of anguished wail at the tail end of the question, and he winces, furious at himself all over again. Why can’t he have André’s cool head, his easy mastery over his emotions? Maybe he should do more yoga after all.

“I wanted to see you,” André says softly. Jev stares at him, then snatches up his cup of coffee, which is now surely lukewarm, and stalks into the living room. It’s less that he necessarily wants to be in there, more to buy himself a few extra seconds before he needs to react. His stomach is swooping uncomfortably, and he's not sure whether he wants to cry, chuck André out or sink to his knees and beg to be allowed to suck his dick.

André sits on the corner of the couch, carefully not letting himself get too close to Jev who’s gone for his usual spot buried into the corner, his feet curled beneath himself. He stares out of the window on the other side of the room, although there’s nothing worth seeing out there, just trees and endless white identikit houses. André hums a little under his breath before he speaks, a nervous sound that makes Jev’s heart lurch in sympathy despite everything. “I know I was an asshole, Jev. I’m not pretending otherwise.”

“You can’t do that to people,” Jev says, because it’s easier than saying _you can’t do that to me._ He can’t keep the hurt from flooding his voice. “You don’t get to just disappear when you feel like it.”

“It was a couple of days,” André says, sounding exasperated. “I just needed some time to sort my head out, okay? I didn’t mean to…to ghost you, or whatever you said.” He rests his elbows on his knees, dropping his head into his hands. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled. “I needed to sort my head out,” he repeats. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what this is.”

“You said it was fine,” Jev says, unable to stop his voice from rising, although now he thinks about it, he’s not so sure André ever said anything much at all. Well, maybe that’s the problem.

“I thought it was just sex,” André snaps. His hands are still covering his face, his hair mussed out of its usual quiff where he’s dragged his hands through it. When he speaks again, the fight is gone from his voice and he sounds tired and sad. “I thought we were just fucking.”

“André,” Jev says, and then stops because he doesn’t know what to say and anyway, he’s not sure he can speak because it feels like something is sitting on his chest. He reaches out to pick up his coffee cup for something to do and realises his hand is trembling. He swallows heavily and prises the lid off the cup, staring into the milky depths of his ruined latte. “Do you fuck all your teammates, then? Is this just what you do?”

“Of course not.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jev sees André bunch his hands into his hair, then drag them down over his face. He picks up a pillow and stares down blankly at the herringbone pattern on it. He looks exhausted, and Jev wonders how he’s spent the last few days, whether he’s been feeling just as bad as Jev has. “That’s exactly my point. I don’t do this, and especially not with my fucking teammates. And the reason why I don’t do it is because it’s a fucking stupid idea.”

“Don’t you think you should have thought of that before you got me into bed?” Jev says. His voice is wobbling and he doesn’t have the energy to try to steady it. Abruptly, it hits him that this could be everything he’s dreading: his team destroyed, André gone from him, his reputation in tatters once again.

“I did,” André says. “I did think about it, but I - fuck, Jev, I’m only human. I wanted you so much. I _want_ you so much,” he corrects himself, and there’s a hoarseness in his voice that makes Jev shiver even now. He stares at André’s hands, twisting the velour fabric of the pillow slowly. “But people are finding out already. I can’t control myself around you.”

“So let them find out.”

André looks up then, gives him a sad smile. “You know it’s not that simple, Jev.”

“So, what?” Jev says. Hysteria creeps in around the edges of his voice. He wants to throw the coffee into André’s face. He wants André to fuck him up against the Juliette balcony where everyone in the street can see. “We just give up? You can’t control yourself, you say, so what now? You’re going to leave the team? Because I’m not.”

“No,” André says, raising his hands as if to try to placate him. “I’m not saying that at all. God.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “I don’t know what I’m saying, to be honest. But it’s not that.”

Jev opens his mouth again to say something else, but André waves him down. “Shut up for a minute, will you? This is hard enough. I’m no good at this kind of thing.”

They’re both silent for a moment, breathing. “Have you ever had a relationship?” Jev says eventually, ignoring André’s sideways glare. “Like a real one, a proper one.”

There’s a pause. “No,” André says eventually. His voice is hollow. “Not a proper one.”

“We wouldn’t have to hide forever,” Jev says softly. He has to turn away when André reaches out to touch the bare skin of his ankle.

“We might do, babe,” André says. Jev digs his bitten-down nails into the palm of his hand, the tiny pain a futile distraction against the way his chest feels like it’s splitting down the middle. André is probably right, he knows. He’s heard stories of drivers blackmailed for less. André’s thumb traces the bones of his ankle and Jev can’t stop himself from pressing into the touch.

“I think it would be worth it,” Jev says, barely audible. The words feel like they’re being dragged out of him. With a distant sort of horror, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, it occurs to him that he has handed André every tool he needs to destroy his life should he want to.

He risks a glance at André. The older man has his eyes closed, his only movement the slow circles his thumb still traces across Jev’s ankle. “I thought we were just fucking,” he repeats with a sort of hopeless sigh. “And then I realised we weren’t, and now I don’t know what to do about it.”

Jev reaches down, touches his fingertips against André’s where the rest against his ankle. “I really like you,” he says. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

André smiles slightly at that, his eyes still closed, head tipped back to face the ceiling. He turns his hand palm-up, briefly linking his fingers with Jev’s and squeezing them, and then slides bonelessly from the sofa, landing on his knees on the mink-coloured rug. Jev blinks down at him, but André just shakes his head slightly and crawls the few feet to where he’s sitting.

Jev unfolds his long limbs with some difficulty, looking down at André on his knees, still not sure whether he’s allowed to touch. André reaches out, takes his foot in one hand and tugs it toward himself. He leans down, presses a kiss to the softer skin of the top of his foot, such a clear gesture of supplication that it sends a shiver down Jev’s spine. Goosebumps spread across his skin beneath André’s lips, creeping up his legs beneath his jeans. André presses his forehead against Jev’s shin, cradling his foot in both hands, breathing slowly. Jev watches him, the rise and fall of his ribcage beneath his shirt where he’s curled forward, the freckled skin at the back of his neck. He drops one hand to touch André’s face, tracing the shell of his ear, one thumb smoothing over his eyebrow and over the fine laughter lines that spread from the corner of his eye. They stay there for a long time, until the light from the setting sun has begun to filter through the plane trees outside the window.

Nothing is solved, but André cooks the sea bass for them and sleeps in his bed, wearing Jev’s ancient _The Queen is Dead_ t-shirt, and he’s still there when they wake up the next day.

 


	8. Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK FROM THE DEAD. I know I've prefaced basically every chapter of this with an apology for how long it's taken to write, but this one was particularly bad. I had a crippling bout of writers block and struggled to see where to take this next. Thanks to those of you who indulged my panicking about it and helped coax me through figuring out what to do with it, especially Caroline for her extremely useful suggestions re: André's mental state around this time.
> 
> It's still sad, I'm afraid. I promise there'll be happy bits and sexy bits again soon.

Léa, of all people, takes it upon herself to give him a pep talk the night before his home race.

He picks André up at Roissy. André doesn’t embrace him when he spots Jev amongst the tired businessmen and crying children, just claps him on the shoulder, the other hand already pushing his sunglasses down where they were perched on the top of his head. Jev, piqued, holds him in place to kiss him on both cheeks, the traditional greeting he doesn’t often bother with anymore. André turns his cheek from one side to the other to receive his dry pecks, doesn’t return them but meets his eyes with a half-smile. Jev is careful to keep his body an appropriate distance from André’s as he leads them to the short-term stay carpark.

“My parents said you should come to dinner tonight,” Jev ventures carefully as he scans the lines of cars for his own, cursing his failure as always to write the coordinates of his chosen parking space down. “If you’re free.”

André glances at him, face inscrutable behind his mirrored sunglasses. Not for the first time, Jev understands why journalists get so irritated at the drivers for wearing them. “Sure,” he says easily, shrugging one shoulder the best he can with his huge leather overnight bag slung over it. “No plans.” He’s smiling slightly as he says it but his voice is curiously flat. It’s the version of André he sees in interviews or when talking to fans, carefully modulated and with all his sharp edges smoothed out. Jev squints at him but André’s face is neutral beneath his shades. Jev is about to reply when he spots his car, tugs on André’s elbow instead. André’s skin is warm beneath the soft cashmere of his jumper, and he allows himself to be steered without complaint.

He is, at least, loudly and brattily horrified about the Smart car Jev drives when he’s in the city, asking pointed questions about the horsepower and making a show of folding his long legs into the dinky passenger seat. Jev takes a moment to thank his lucky stars that André has only brought his overnight bags with him and not bothered with a full suitcase, because Jev’s not sure he could have coped with the shame if his luggage hadn’t fit into the admittedly miniature trunk.

“I wish I’d gone back to Gordes,” André grumbles as they sit in traffic on the Avenue de Chateau.It’s cold and grey out, but the sun is low in the sky and bounces off the wet tarmac. The muscles around his eyes are beginning to hurt with the glare and he leans across André’s lap to open the glove compartment, rummaging around until he finds a pair of sunglasses. With a start, he realises that they’re the Raybans he had accidentally stolen from André not long after they’d met. If André recognises them, he doesn’t mention it.

“You don’t mean that,” Jev says, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the hip-hop playing quietly on NRJ. He manages to keep the worst of the neediness out of his voice.

“Nah,” André says after a pause. He reaches across the centre console to touch Jev’s knee briefly, and Jev covers his fingers with his own hand, squeezing. “You know I don’t.”

It’s as close to an admission that Jev thinks he’s going to get, so he doesn’t push it any further, humming along to a song he recognises vaguely - it comes as something of a shock to realise just how few of the latest chart hits he actually does know, and he wonders vaguely if he’s getting old - and fiddling with the climate control system, trying to warm the car up. When he looks across at André again, the Belgian is turned away, resting his temple against the window, staring out at the buildings as they scroll past. Whatever Jev had wanted to say, he can’t think of a way to say it.

 

Léa collars him in the kitchen as they’re bringing in the desserts. The teenage familiarity of the setup - his father and mother in the dining room, entertaining the guests and pouring out _digestif_ armagnac while Jean-Éric and Léa are sent to the kitchen to fetch coffees, cheeseboards, the Paris-Brest which are the only patisserie he ever remembers his mother being able to reliably bake well - is broken only by André’s presence at the dinner table. Jev’s parents had, somewhat predictably, been charmed by André on his best behaviour, and Jev had watched on with a peculiar mixture of pride and irritation as his father pushed his pack of Gitanes across the table, gesturing at André to help himself, and said “Well, well, three times at Le Mans. A real champion.” Jev had not missed the slight emphasis on _real_.

“You like him, don’t you,” Léa murmurs to him, _sotto voce_ , as he’s digging through the silver drawer for the cheese knives. “André, I mean.” Her voice returns to its usual volume. “Hey, where are the figs?”

Jev blinks, blindsided as ever by his sister’s rapid-fire questioning and total disregard for emotional boundaries over the dinner table. Or near it, at least. “Of course I like him, I wouldn’t have brought him to dinner if we hated each other’s guts.” He finally locates the last of the knives and dumps them on to the serving tray he’s already piled with side plates, dishes of olives and a basket of bread. “And the figs are in the paper bag on the counter.”

“You know I don’t mean like that.” Jev glares at her over the top of the cafetierre he’s attempting to balance on the tray, which is rapidly running out of space. “I mean you _like_ him.” For effect, she switches to English, adopting an American accent and stretching out her vowels, Valley girl style.

“Are you twelve?” Jev snaps. He can feel that he’s going red. Damn Léa, damn siblings and their uncanny ability to go for the jugular, damn it all. Léa, perhaps scenting blood, grins widely.

“Oh my god, you _do,_ ” she says, voice full of glee. “Oh, this is great. You’re such an idiot. Have you told him?”

“Shut up.” Jev elbows a cupboard door shut with a bang, giving her his best glare. The effect of his fury is somewhat spoiled by the large bunch of grapes he’s holding, but he shakes them at her as threateningly as possible. One of the berries falls off and bounces at his feet.“I’m fucking serious, Le. Drop it.”

Maybe there’s more venom in his voice than he anticipates, because he sees the surprise flicker across Léa’s features before she shrugs and looks away, her expression hidden behind the smooth sheet of her hair as she bends to tip the figs from their bag into a waiting dish. In the dining room, he hears André’s distinctive, infuriating laugh overlaid with his father’s gruff chuckle and sighs. It’s taken him a while to put his finger on why the evening feels so strange, but Léa’s words have brought it home to him. He feels like he’s brought home a date, the same nerves in the pit of his stomach as when he’d introduced his first real girlfriend as a gawky 17-year-old. _You’re punching above your weight,_ his dad had murmured when she went to use the bathroom. He was probably right.

Léa touches his shoulder gently as she moves to pick up her tray and take it through. “Hey. Everything OK?”

“Fine,” Jev mumbles. “Let’s talk later.”

She considers him for a long moment, thoughtful, but simply gestures with a nod to let him go through first.

 

He might have known he wasn’t going to escape that easily, because she barges into his room later that night while he’s in the middle of trying to figure out whether he has everything he needs packed to take to the track tomorrow. André is in the guest room, having excused himself shortly after dinner pleading jet lag and collapsing on to the bed fully-clothed as soon as Jev had shown him in. The urge to crawl in next to him had been almost overwhelming.

“Fuck off, I need to pack,” Jev says absently, concentrating more on digging through his jacket pockets to try to find his track ID.

“Absolutely not,” Léa says cheerfully, closing the door behind herself and sitting on the end of his bed. She picks up a t-shirt from the messy pile Jev is making at the foot of the bed and begins to fold it. “You said we could talk about this later, and now it’s later. Come on, tell me. I want all the gossip.”

When he looks up at her, she’s watching him with an open expression. No judgment, no mockery.

So he does. He takes a deep breath and tells her everything, from their first meetings and André’s flirtation, how he’d been taken aback at the ease with which their friendship had developed, all the way through to the first time they’d had sex and the arguments that had followed. He can’t help the catch in his voice when he recounts the way André had cooked for him, the care he’d shown. Léa listens in silence, helping him pack, letting Jev organise his thoughts at his own pace. It’s rare that he talks to his sister like this, but their relationship has softened as they’ve aged, less openly antagonistic than it had been when they were both teenagers. The fact that she doesn’t know André, can’t use the knowledge of their burgeoning relationship against him on the track, makes it easier to be honest.

“And now I don’t know what to do,” he finishes eventually, winding his headphone wires around his hand and dropping them into his rucksack. “Because he said he needed some time to sort his head out but it’s been _weeks_.” He sighs, sits down next to Léa on the end of the bed and rests his head on her shoulder. He’s very tired all of a sudden. “I thought maybe if we went back to just being teammates again, we might get used to it and eventually I wouldn’t want more, but it’s not working. Sam says he thinks André’s just scared.” He closes his eyes. “Every time I see him I think about it.”

Léa pats his shoulder, drops her cheek to rest on top of his head and squeezes him briefly. “I think you need to talk to him. Tell him what you just told me.”

“You think?” Jev mumbles. “We tried talking already, it didn’t go so well.”

“You had an argument,” she corrects. “Not the same thing.”

When he doesn’t respond, she sighs, unwinding herself from him and standing up, stretching. “Hey, I should let you get some sleep. But promise me you’ll think about it?”

He nods, and she grins, opening the bedroom door and pausing on the threshold. “Good, because if you don’t, I’ll tell him myself. You’re annoying when you’re moping around like this.”

He flips her off. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says, but she just laughs and closes the door.

 

“I think you need to know that I still want to be with you,” Jev says all in one breath in the drivers’ room after shakedown. He knows as soon as the words have left his mouth that he’s fucked up, even before he sees André’s face. The words hang unnaturally in the air between them, the space beyond the thin prefab walls bustling with engineers, team personnel, media. The sheer intensity of the emotion making his voice wobble is all wrong for the wipe-clean surfaces of the garage. He curses his impulsive streak, the self-destructive reckless urge that he’s forever hoping he’s shaken himself free of. The words have been building up behind his teeth all day and now they’ve spilled out, he wishes only that he could rake them back in.

“Don’t,” André says without looking up from his phone. “Not here.” He’s stretched out on his mattress pad, chin buried into the neck of his softshell, cap pulled low over his eyes. The overall effect casts his face almost entirely into shadow, rendering his expression impossible to read. It’s probably a good thing.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a pause. “Fuck. This is a stupid time to bring it up. But we need to talk about it.” He sighs when André doesn’t react. “André, please.”

“Not at the track,” André repeats, finally looking up, and Jev wilts under the anger in his gaze. It’s justified, he knows. “Jev, you _can’t_ bring this up at the track. You can’t. We’re racing in less than 24 hours, for fuck’s sake. We both need clear heads, this isn’t the time.

“If not now, when?” Jev grabs his own jacket and pulls it on, fumbling with the zip. He can’t stay here any longer, in this tiny room with its glaring strip-lighting and clutter, the whine of power drillsoutside drowning out his thoughts. “There’s never going to be a good time.”

He allows the door to bang shut behind him as he stalks out of the room, but the material of it is so flimsy and thin that it only rattles in its frame.

 

If nothing else, the years he spent at Toro Rosso have given Jev a finely-honed ability to compartmentalise. He sleeps well before the race, waking up with a pleasurable hum of anticipation at the thought of driving his car around the streets he walked as a child. He puts all his hurt and confusion over André into a little box, locks it up tight in the part of his brain that isn’t allowed in when he’s racing, and pours his entire being into sending his car around the track.

The joy he feels standing on the top step of the podium, La Marseillaise ringing in his ears and his shoulders draped in his flag as his home fans cheer and shout his name, is tempered somewhat when he gets back to the paddock. Still sticky with champagne and picking bits of confetti from his damp hair, he finds his teammate standing toe-to-toe with Sam, the two of them muttering at each other in a way that looks distinctly unfriendly. Shit.

He hovers for a moment, unsure whether or not to interrupt them. They’re stood in a relatively secluded area behind the garages, well away from the lingering cameras and VIPs with pit lane passes. The team, on the other side of the temporary walls, are more occupied with tearing down the garage and getting everything packed away before the trucks are due to leave than with mediating inter-team hissy fits.

“- need to get your head checked out after that little stunt, you might think you can do whatever the fuck you like here and people will let you get away with it but believe me, that’s not the case,” Sam finishes as Jev gets within earshot, punctuating his words with a shove to André’s shoulder that instantly makes Jev panic. André doesn’t strike him as the violent type but Jev’s pretty sure he could knock Sam out with a single punch if he chose to.

Thankfully, André simply takes a step back, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead in an expression of polite disbelief. One hand reaches up to touch the spot Sam had prodded. His face is drawn and tight, the furrows around his mouth etched deep with tension and the birthmark on his cheek standing out in livid relief against his pale skin. He glances up at Jev and shakes his head minutely, a warning. Anger flares in Jev’s chest. Who is André to try to tell him not to get involved?

“What the hell is going on?” he says, directing his question to Sam rather than André and placing a hand on Sam’s arm for good measure, trying to insinuate his body between them and steer Sam out of punching distance just in case.

“Your _teammate,_ ” Sam spits the word, “needs to learn how to control his car.”

“And you need to learn how to control your temper,” André snaps, folding his arms across his chest. The urge to laugh bubbles up hysterically in Jev’s chest. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. He’s never seen Sam this angry before, the Brit usually happy to solve his disputes on-track rather than let the anger spill out into face-to-face accusations. He thinks of the worry in Sam’s eyes when he’d turned up on his doorstep. Wonders what Sam had written in the texts he’d sent to André that had him booking the next flight to Heathrow.

“Oh, believe me, there’s people lining up behind me to punch your lights out right now,” Sam says. “You’d better hope you don’t see Lucas any time soon. What’s up, got sick of fucking your teammate over and thought you’d have a go with the rest of the grid?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Jev says, his stomach lurching. André’s eyes have narrowed, arms still folded across his chest but drawn in tight now, defensive. Sam glances across, meets Jev’s gaze, and Jev sees the flash of guilt in his eyes. “Sam, come on. This isn’t your fight.”

“I’m not wrong,” Sam says, shoulders dropping, the fight suddenly melting out of him. He pushes his hand through his hair, leaving it stuck up and spiky with half-dried sweat. He looks back at André again, challenging. “Or am I?”

“It’s my fault,” Jev blurts. He sees André flinch and Sam’s expression harden once again. Now backed up almost against the wall, André is shaking his head. He opens his mouth to speak but Jev interrupts. “No, it is. I pushed things too far this morning, I shouldn’t… Your race, all of your races got fucked up and it’s my fault.” Even as the words leave his mouth he’s not sure he believes them. He’s not sure what he believes at all any more, the champagne he’d swilled and the thrill of winning rendering him light-headed and his thoughts skidding around inside his brain.

“No, it’s not.”

André’s voice is quiet but firm. He holds a hand out, half placating, half defensive, still not quite meeting Sam’s eyes. His body language screams wariness, and not for the first time Jev wonders at the things André keeps carefully hidden in his past, what might have happened before they met that has flight reflex written so clearly in every line of his body. Sam is right, he realises. André is scared

He looks up, into Jev’s face openly for the first time. The imprint of his fireproof balaclava is still etched around his left eye. Jev’s fingers itch to touch, run his thumb across the crenulation in his skin. “It’s not your fault,” André repeats, insistent, and Jev knows he’s talking about more than the race. “Not at all.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sam says. He sounds tired now. He directs his gaze to André, who glances back at him from the corner of his eyes. “I swear to god, if you knew -” he cuts himself off abruptly, shaking his head once, sharply, as if to clear it. Jev knows what he wants to say, the depths Sam’s seen him sink to. He pushes the thought away

“I’m sorry,” André says. He’s staring at the floor a few inches away from where either of them are stood and it’s not entirely clear who he’s speaking to. He frowns slightly, forehead creasing, then glances up at Sam.

Sam shrugs. “I’m due at the stewards’ office in five minutes,” he says. _To discuss you,_ he does not have to add. “Congratulations on the win, pal,” he says to Jev, clapping him on the back as he passes. “You’re on a blinder lately. Come find me later and I’ll get you a drink.”

They’re both silent until Sam is out of earshot, looking at each other, neither sure how to begin. André sags back against the wall, rubbing his face with cupped hands. “I am,” he says. “Sorry, I mean.”

“I know,” Jev says. He takes a step and then another, until he’s close enough to touch.

André turns to face him, tilting his whole body without straightening up from his slump against the wall. A ghost of a smile lurks around the corners of his mouth, rueful. “I never said congratulations. Your home race, it’s a special one. Come here.”

And it’s stupid, irrational, dangerous, but he does it anyway. Glances over his shoulder to make sure there’s nobody coming. Steps into the fulcrum of André’s arms, pressing himself close, allowing himself to be kissed slow and deep. André’s hand pushes into his hair, gripping tight, holding Jev in place as though fearing he’s going to bolt. He’s trembling slightly, tension thrumming just beneath his skin, and Jev feels a strange wave of protectiveness washing over him as André makes a soft, desperate noise against his mouth.

He breaks the kiss first, André leaning in to chase the contact, breathing against him. Jev presses a gentle, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth and André’s eyes flutter open. Even now, the intense indigo blue of them up close makes him want to gasp.

Voices drift in from the other side of the partitioning; they’re secluded, but not entirely hidden, and Jev knows they should pull away. He stirs in André’s arms, trying to disentangle himself, but André briefly tightens his grip, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m trying,” he says, husky-voiced, and Jev can only nod because he knows it’s true. 


	9. Gordes, Mostly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all to everyone who has stuck with this through my continued snail's pace update speed, I love and appreciate you all. Special thanks as always go to C and especially B for their help. 
> 
> This is probably the penultimate chapter? And as such, it's finally a happier one, sort of. 
> 
> The 24 Hours of Nürburgring took place in between the Paris and Berlin ePrix last year. The Porsche André was co-driving for Team75 Bernhard had been running in the top ten throughout until a suspension issue which took nearly an hour to repair, meaning they finished in 21st place.

_01:41 I’m beginning to think I’m cursed :-(_

It’s dark when Jev’s phone vibrates on the sofa next to him, jerking him out of the light doze he’d fallen into. Confused, he squints at the television, playing an episode of the crime drama he’d put on quietly enough to have allowed his attention to drift. He jabs at the remote until he manages to turn it off.

Jev thumbs his phone unlocked, staring at the message with no real idea how to respond. He hadn’t meant to watch the race, or at least not as much of it as he’d ended up doing. The sun had set outside his living room window and then risen again as he had stuttered in and out of a light, disorienting sleep. He’d told himself firmly that it was simply the allure of the Nordschleife and not the way his stomach twisted with delicious nerves every time André’s surname scrolled across the timing ticker at the bottom screen.

In the end, he’d dragged a blanket through from the bedroom, slept fitfully through the red flags until the rain-slick track had permeated his dreams enough to tip them into nightmares of other, worse storms, his subconscious dwelling on horrors he’d rather forget. He had made coffee at five o’clock, been awake enough by the end of the race to watch the chance of seeing André on the podium slipping away. If single-seater racing is fire, he knows, endurance is ice, and the cold, almost casual cruelty of it is nothing new to him.

Still, it had made his chest ache, watching the number 21 car slip down the class rankings. _Désolé_ , he’d texted to André after the race. One word hadn't seemed enough, but what else was there to say? Mechanical retirements are nothing new in enduro, but Jev knows the creeping exhaustion, the futility that sets in. There’s nothing to say to make it better, which is why he had fallen asleep without expecting a reply.

He rubs at his face, trying to wake himself up enough to respond coherently to André’s reply. _Cursed_. It’s a strong word, one he could sooner imagine using himself than associating with André’s confident approach to life. He wonders why André isn’t asleep, how the exhaustion of an endurance race hasn’t knocked him out the way it usually would.

He’s still staring blankly at his phone when it begins to vibrate again, making him jump foolishly. It’s only when his own face appears on the screen, reflected at an unflattering angle, that he realises André is trying to video-call him. He blinks at André’s name, momentarily stupefied, before raising the screen to a more favourable angle and hitting Accept.

“You should be asleep,” he says by way of greeting.

“I’m in bed,” André says a touch defensively, tilting his phone so Jev can see. It’s a hotel bed, the sateen stripes in the otherwise anonymous white bedding catching the glow from his screen. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt, a faded print across the chest that Jev can’t decipher in the low light; his face is unshaven, eyes heavy and ringed with purple, the patch of inflamed skin on his cheek standing out in livid relief. There's a strange vulnerability to him that takes Jev off-guard. He wants to do something to help, even as he knows there's nothing to be done. André probably wouldn’t accept his help anyway.

“How are you?” he asks instead, as though he doesn't know the answer. André snorts and shakes his head slightly, exhaling so heavily it ruffles the longer strands of hair that hang over his face, still damp from the shower.

“Shit,” André says flatly, his tone resigned. “That race was a fucker.”

“Yeah,” Jev says, shifting his weight until he's curled into the corner of the sofa, pillowing his chin on his knee and stretching his arm out so his face is fully in frame. “Yeah, it really seemed that way.”

On the screen, André scratches at his stubble. “Did you not go to bed? Or did you wake up super early?”

“I didn't really sleep,” Jev admits. “Not properly, anyway. I just brought a blanket through. I didn't mean to watch the whole thing, I just got caught up in it. I napped a little during the red flags.”

André winces. “Don't remind me.”

“Sorry,” Jev says, and sighs. There’s a beat of silence, both of them watching each other through the screens, and then they both start speaking at once.

“I wish there was something I could do,” Jev says at the same time as André says “I thought about you a lot while I was in the car.”

They both blink at each other, neither wanting to carry on speaking, until André huffs out a laugh and says, “You first.”

“No,” Jev says, embarrassed. “You go on. I didn’t really have a point. I just - I do. Wish that.”

“I’m not sure what my point is either,” André says, but the corners of his eyes are creased in their familiar smile, the one Jev likes to think might be reserved only for himself and Max.

André glances away from the screen, over his shoulder. To one side of the view of the room available to him, Jev can see murky light creeping around the edges of the blackout curtains. The colour of it is cold and grey, artificial, presumably from a streetlamp outside the window. He is seized with the overwhelming desire to be there, in the room with André instead of watching him through a screen. He wants to touch the silky blankets to feel the heft of hotel linens, pull the curtains aside to see the view for himself, rub the patch of dry skin on André’s face with his fingertips and see if he can soothe away the pain.

There’s a bird singing in the trees outside Jev’s flat, even though the only light out here, too, comes from the streetlights. A blackbird, maybe, like the song, although Jev couldn’t recognise one bird’s call from another. André, he thinks, would probably know. He knows how to shoot a rifle and fix a bike and strip an engine down to its constituent parts and then rebuild it, better than it was before. André is the sort of person who has gone through his entire life knowing things, makes it his business to take things apart just to figure out how to put them back together again. Which makes it all the more disquieting to see him now, the hotel blankets pooled around his waist, staring off past the front-facing camera of his iPhone, entirely lost.

Jev is quiet for a moment, listening to the bird sing. He wants to tell André about it, knows the microphone on his phone isn’t sensitive enough to pick it up and probably filters out the ambient noise anyway. The simulacrum of his presence in André’s room is no consolation for either of them. On the other side of the screen, André feels impossibly far away.

“I wanted to talk to you,” André starts again, the words falling heavy in the artificial space between them. “While I was in the car, I mean. I wished you were there.”

“I wish you were here now,” Jev says. André’s eyes flicker up at that, directly into the camera, and as always Jev is taken aback momentarily by their startling intensity, the indefinable colour of them that shifts and swells in the lamplight, their slight downward tilt. His stomach lurches, the ever-present twist of desire that cuts through the sadness and heavy-limbed exhaustion.

“I wish you were here, too,” André murmurs. He rubs a hand over his face again, blunt fingernails reaching up to worry at the patch of inflamed skin on his cheek. Jev’s fingers twitch with the need to replace André’s own. It’s the closest he’s come to an admission of weakness, of wanting Jev as much as Jev wants him. Maybe it’s the screens that make it easier for André to admit his vulnerability. Or maybe he’s just tired, past caring, wanting only to be comforted 

Jev wets his lips. The mood is so delicately balanced and he doesn’t want to bring it crashing down. “You want me to get a flight?” He’s only half-joking.

André smiles, resigned. “No,” he says, though it’s gentle. “But I’d like to see you when I get back.The new place is nearly done, you want to come see it?”

“Sure,” Jev says. _The new place_ is the old farmhouse out in Provence. André had bought it almost ruined, the roof leaking, the interior a dusty cavern. Occasionally he sends Jev screenshots of emails the designers have sent him with swatches for paint, different tones of bleached wood, woven fabrics in muted shades: _which of these do u prefer? I think I like the dove grey but the plumbago grey is nice too???_ , forcing Jev to email back _I don’t know what any of that means but I like the pale one_.

André stifles a yawn unsuccessfully with the back of his hand. Jev frowns at him. “You should try to get some sleep. When is your flight?”

“In -” André squints at the screen, obviously checking the time, “Shit, in like five hours. Are you in Paris?”

Jev nods, and André yawns again, wider this time. “Cool. You wanna drive down on Monday morning?”

“I’ll text you when I leave,” Jev says in agreement, and André nods, his eyes already heavy. “André, go to sleep.” 

André smiles drowsily and lifts a hand to the camera, a half-wave as though the limb is too heavy to lift any further, before the screen goes black as André hangs up and his phone locks itself.

“Miss you,” Jev says to the blank screen. 

 

They meet at a food market in Avignon, the nearest city to Gordes. André is wearing a charcoal-coloured overcoat of thick boiled wool despite the fact that the sun is out, the gentle breeze barely ruffling the hair at the back of Jev’s neck as he steps out of the car. Max barks in greeting, straining at the end of his leash tosniff at Jev’s jeans. Jev, embarrassingly, finds himself tongue-tied once they’ve exchanged the initial greetings, André’s air of insouciant glamour in his smart coat and mirrored Ditas rendering him aloof once again. Is it always going to be like this, Jev wonders, the awe he feels around André never quite subsiding? He bends to Max instead, ruffling the dog’s fur, cooing to him and getting slobber all over the cuff of his jacket in the process.

When he straightens up, André is watching him with a funny half-smile, his face still slightly guarded but something fond in the creases around his mouth. He touches Jev’s elbow gently, nodding in the direction of the food stalls nearby. The smell of garlic and roasted meat is thick in the air; no wonder the dog is drooling, Jev thinks, his own stomach rumbling.

“We need to get something to eat for tonight,” André tells him, wrapping Max’s leash tighter around his hand as the dog tries to pull him in the direction of a stall with a suckling pig slowly turning on a spit behind the counter. “You want a coffee? There’s a stall that does great espresso here.”

“That would be good,” Jev says, stilted, cursing himself. Why can’t he remember how to hold a conversation all of a sudden? He follows André to the stall he points out, accepting his cappuccino gratefully when it’s pressed into his hands by the girl manning the Gaggia, prising the lid off and blowing across the froth to ward off a burnt tongue.

André sips his double espresso, scanning the market stalls with narrowed eyes. He’d pushed his sunglasses up on to the top of his head to speak to the barista, an unusual display of politesse that had Jev raising an eyebrow. As though he can tell Jev is watching him, his gaze flickers sideways, making brief eye contact and then looking away, a slight smile on his lips. A shiver of something pleasurable races down Jev’s spine, nothing he could put a name to. How unfair, he thinks, that André is able to make him feel like this with a simple movement of his eyes.

“Come on,” he says. His voice is gentle, as though he’s aware of Jev’s consternation. “I want to pick up some meat, there’s a great supplier here, beef from a herd of Charolais cattle, the fat distribution is… Well, it’s not Wagyu, but it’s delicious if you grill it right. If the rain holds off we can barbecue.” Jev nods and follows where he’s led with the remnants of his coffee, lulled by the rhythms of André’s authoritative patter.

They buy filet mignon, red-skinned potatoes still thick with clots of fragrant earth, fat balls of mozzarella swimming in their bags of brine, prosciutto freshly sliced so thin it’s translucent, a round loaf of bread with a crust so thick it grazes a layer of skin Jev’s knuckles when he picks it up to slip it into a paper bag. Through it all, he feels André’s eyes on him, watching him surreptitiously, occasionally beckoning him to a particular counter to suck lavender honey from a wooden sample stick or offer him a cube of smoky chorizo dripping fragrant oil.

Other than his murmured comments about the food, he’s quiet, seemingly lost in thought. He steers Jev from stall to stall with one hand in the small of his back, and Jev has to resist the urge to lean into the contact, to angle his body enough to curl into André’s side like he really wants to. Despite his apparent willingness to touch, André still feels far away.

  

The rain does hold off, and Jev drives them out to the farmhouse. André keeps the conversation surface-level, pointing out of the window to direct Jev’s attention to a good restaurant, a field of lavender just beginning to bloom, a dirt track up a steep hill he’d biked up the previous day. Despite André’s contemplative mood, the peace of the countryside relaxes Jev. Driving André back home like this, Max curled in the back seat, the tempting smell of food wafting up from the paper bag stowed of of his reach in the footwell - it all feels oddly domestic, like a snatched glimpse at a life he can’t let himself think about head-on.

Maybe André feels it too, because as they reach the unpaved road leading to his house, he reaches over and touches Jev’s thigh, his hand resting on the curve of the muscle. Jev resists the urge to jump, covers it by dropping one hand from the steering wheel to touch André’s wrist, a brief acknowledgment. It’s in the back of his mind to hold André’s hand, but that feels like too much of a risk. He’s grateful that the car he’s driving is has a manual gearstick, giving his hand something to do. An excuse not to touch.

They grill the meat outside on the pristine gas barbecue André had the interior designers install beneath the terrace, Jev swinging in the rope hammock, smoking, as he watches André wielding the tongs. 

He can't help but think back to the last time André had cooked for him, in Nivelles, and how that night had ended. Leaning over to check the progress of the potatoes and fennel, which he's meant to be basting with rosemary-flecked olive oil every few minutes, he refuses to let himself wonder whether André is aware of the similarities, whether he's planned this as a seduction. Or an apology. Sometimes he thinks he might be doomed to spend the rest of his life second-guessing André’s motives, forever scrambling to keep up.

“Is the pool filled?” Jev asks, pointing with his cigarette to the swimming pool set into the field behind the house. It's covered with a blue tarpaulin stretched over a frame, the colour shocking against the soft browns and greens of the sparse foliage and stone surroundings. Max is nosing at one end of it, having finally realised that André isn't going to feed him any scraps just yet.

“Yeah,” André says, wiping his forehead with the back of one hand. The smoke from the barbecue has irritated his eyes and they're tinged with pink, his forehead damp with sweat. “They installed all the filters and stuff last week. Kinda chilly for a swim though, don't you think?"

Jev shrugs. “Might be refreshing.” 

“You just want to see me in my swimming trunks,” André says. His tone is light, flirtatious even, but he holds Jev’s gaze even through the haze of smoke, one tooth worrying at the corner of his bottom lip thoughtfully. A seduction, then, Jev decides, and doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“I don't need the pool to get you naked,” Jev replies, keeping his voice as playful as André’s had been.

“Oh, you think so?”

“I know so,” Jev says with more confidence than he feels. André smirks, one eyebrow raising fractionally in a way that sends a small shiver down Jev’s spine, before he turns his attention back to the barbecue in front of him. Somehow he manages to make flipping the steaks look sexy.

 

In the end, they don’t swim, even though Jev privately _does_ quite want to see André soaking wet and wearing Speedos. André’s mood switches between his usual flirtation and a strange pensiveness, occasionally breaking off a conversation to stare out over the flat vistas of the Provencal hillside or stir his food around his plate thoughtfully. 

Jev doesn’t drink much, finds he wants to stay as sober as possible for whatever the night brings. It’s nice to think that this might be a repeat of their night in Belgium, suffused with a warmth and simplicity he finds hard to believe ever existed between them. He knows it won’t be though, not with André on his guard like this. Things are complicated now.

André pushes steak into his mouth determinedly, as though plugging his throat to stop his voice from spilling out. Jev licks at the iron tang of blood that oozes from his own steak, waiting.

“I thought about you,” André begins finally, echoing what he’d told Jev over the phone. He cuts a piece of carrot neatly, the soft flesh scored with black char marks from the grill, and chews it slowly. Jev presses his lips together to stop himself from interrupting. “On the Nordschliefe, you know? It’s good for thinking, enduro.”

Jev snorts a bit at that. “Is it?”

He regularly gets out of the car after his own stints in LMP2 to find he has almost no memory of the hour that’s just passed, his own whirring thoughts for once quietened by the constant knife-edge routine of gear change, brake, throttle, steering. It’s his own personal form of meditation at 300km per hour. That’s partly why he loves it so much. The thought that André spent his time negotiating one of the trickiest tracks in the world while mentally sorting through his relationship with Jev makes him want to laugh. It makes him want to crawl into André’s lap and beg to be kissed. 

André shrugs one-shouldered, that sideways smile. “Well, you know. When it’s good. Everything else falls away a bit, you know? I needed some space.” He waves one hand vaguely, but Jev isn’t sure whether the space he’s referring to is physical, mental or both. Jev glances out across the orchard, scanning the horizon for another building. How much space does he need?

“And?” Jev prompts.

He studies André in the short silence that follows, taking in the stubble and the round neck of his grey sweater and the way his legs splay casually wide beneath the table, the bones of his ankles peeking through where he hasn’t bothered to wear socks with his trainers. Everything about him is so finely-honed, utterly inscrutable. It’s hard to know whether to be jealous of him or frustrated at his ability to prevaricate.

Instead of answering, André pushes his seat back, reaches out for Jev’s hand and pulls him to his feet. Jev makes a sound of questioning surprise, but André just shakes his head, pushing him backwards until Jev’s back hits the rough stone of the pillars supporting the verandah roof.

André is in his personal space instantly, pressed against him, his hands cupping Jev’s jaw. He stares, his eyes roving over Jev’s face with an intensity that makes him want to shy away. Jev runs through the adjectives in his mind in the moment before their mouths meet. _Hunger_ , he thinks as their eyes lock briefly, just before André kisses him. He looks hungry.

There’s a fine tremor running through André’s hands where he runs his fingers over the curve of Jev’s throat, one dropping to his waist to push beneath his t-shirt, seeking skin. He’s greedy, grabbing, palming Jev’s side and pushing their hips together, only relenting the pressure slightly when Jev inhales sharply as the rough stones scrape across his spine. 

It’s tempting, _so_ tempting to go with it, to let André carry on when his hands begin to fumble with Jev’s belt. The warmth of his skin, the smell of him and the feel of his mouth are more intoxicating than any wine he could have drunk, and Jev already feels light-headed. But the promise of an explanation, a connection with André forged for once through words instead of actions, tantalises him, preventing him from sinking into the simple pleasure of André’s body against his.

“What are you doing?” he whispers against André’s mouth, hands going to his wrists. Not quite pulling him away, just holding him still. “You were going to tell me something.”

André turns his head away, rubbing his stubbled jaw against the sensitive skin of Jev’s lips until he whimpers and bites at André’s cheek in retaliation. André exhales, almost a sigh. “Right here,” he murmurs, tugging at the restraint of Jev’s hands. “I want to fuck you right here.”

A shiver runs over Jev’s skin, at the hoarse tone of André’s voice as much as his words. He can’t help but picture them together, himself clinging white-knuckled to the stone balustrade, legs spread with André behind him, the sweat cooling on their skin in the lavender-scented breeze.

He turns his head enough that André has to pull back slightly, enough that he can see the expression on his face. André is faraway again, his eyes dark with desire but unfocused, the set of his jaw too defensive. Jev sighs, rubbing his thumbs over the delicate bones in André’s wrists where he still grips them. He turns André’s words over in his mind, trying to unlock the layers of meaning hidden below the dirty talk. André, forever wanting to claim him, put him on display. “André. You were going to tell me something.”

André shakes his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot and trying to nuzzle at Jev’s skin, the sensitive spots on his neck below the hem of his t-shirt. “Let me, c’mon.”

There’s a raw edge to his voice, and it hits Jev all of a sudden that the desperation lacing his words isn’t just because he wants to fuck. The resistance in his body speaks to something like fear. Jev sometimes feels as though he lives most of his life with anxiety gnawing at the contours of his brain, and yet he rarely struggles to speak his mind. André shies away from it almost physically, his tongue flicking out over his bottom lip as though the words are caught between his teeth. He squirms in Jev’s grip, teeth grazing over his skin, and Jev closes his eyes, fighting the urge to tip his head back and submit to André’s talented hands and mouth, to let him say with his body what he can’t with his mouth.

“I want you to talk to me,” he says, voice faint and unconvincing even to his own ears, but he feels André pause, the press of his lips and teeth faltering. To force vulnerability on André when he’s so confident in the way he fucks feels almost cruel. He presses his advantage. “You have to talk to me, André.”

André bares his teeth then, his breath hot on Jev’s neck and for a split second Jev thinks he’s going to bite down. Fear skitters through him, replaced by shame when André sags against him with a shuddery exhale against his neck that raises goosebumps on his damp skin. He’s still, suddenly, the earlier restlessness abruptly drained from him.

“I’m really tired,” he says, and he sounds it, the words falling from his lips like he doesn’t have the energy to stop them.

Jev lets go of his wrists, reaches up to drape his arms over André’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Let’s go inside.”

André hesitates, indecision apparently rendering him temporarily paralysed. The desire to look after him shocks Jev, a sudden reversal of roles that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. How much is it hurting André to show himself to Jev like this, lost for words and helpless? His fingers find the hollow at the base of André’s skull, stroking the downy hairs there, a soft contrast to the bite of stubble further up. “Why don’t you go and make us coffee, hm?”

It’s the right thing to say. Given a physical task to distract himself, André nods obediently and disentangles himself from Jev’s grip, whistling to Max and heading inside to set up the elaborate coffee machine in pride of place on its own workbench by the doors. Jev collects the plates and glasses slowly, glad for the few moments alone with his thoughts.

By the time he’s figured out where the dishwasher is in the sea of identical white-faced cupboards and loaded it, André has fashioned two lattes, both with a shaky design on top that Jev is pretty sure is meant to be a leaf. Jev slides into a chair at the huge breakfast bar, sipping his coffee, watching André lean against the doorframe and stare out over the yard. He waits.

“I don’t like talking about this shit,” André says eventually, without turning around.

“Yeah,” Jev says, fighting to keep the laughter out of his voice. “I’d kind of figured that out already.”

“Fuck off.” He can’t see André’s face, but he knows he’s smiling. “I’m just saying, okay? You need to bear with me. I don’t do this.” He hesitates slightly, squaring his shoulders against the doorframe. “I’ve never seen the point in doing it before.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” Jev says, and André sighs, lifts his cup to his mouth.

He’s silent for so long that Jev thinks maybe he’s blown it. Max wanders inside from where he’d been sunning himself on the patio outside, and André pats his leg absently to catch his attention, fondling the dog’s silky ears when he pads over.

“You’re a good boy,” André tells him gently, and Jev smiles at the softness in his voice, the way his shoulders lose their rigidity when the dog is around. 

“When I was in the car,” André continues after a moment, “even though it was raining like a sonofabitch and I was exhausted and the fucking thing was falling apart underneath me, at one point I just got into that rhythm, you know? Where everything is just coming to you naturally, like you don’t even have to think. And I just thought, _this is so simple._ Like those dreams you have as a kid where you can fly.”

He smiles a little, his eyes fixed on Jev’s hands cradling his coffee cup. “I like my life to be simple.”

“And this isn’t,” Jev guesses.

André’s gaze drifts across to meet his, still smiling gently. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”

Jev takes a deep breath, squeezing the cup hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “I’ve missed waking up beside you. That’s simple enough.”

“Me too,” André says without hesitating. His focus sharpens, gaze searching Jev’s face as if hunting for clues. “Look, Jev, what I mean is… I wanted things to be easy. I wanted to keep coasting along and living my life and having the occasional quick fuck that I didn’t have to think about too much.”

The sun is beginning to set across the hills and the shadows stretch across the wide open spaces of the room they’re in, turning all the white gloss a pale, rich cream. Jev thinks about golden things, crémant he’d once licked from a girlfriend’s skin, the trophies in both of their collections, the colour of the skin on André’s shoulders when he’s been out in the sun.

Max snuffles in the silence that hangs between them, chewing at his own paw. His battered basket with its soft fleece lining, patterned with cartoon bones, is the only thing in the room that looks used. Jev closes his eyes, imagines André moving around the designed space insubstantial as a ghost, his presence unremarked amongst concrete and white paint. 

André breathes out, puts his coffee cup down next to the machine with a soft thud. “Sometimes I don’t know whether you like me at all,” he says suddenly, the words tripping over each other. Jev gapes at him and André waves a hand, agitated. “No, I'm serious. I don't know whether it's me you like or just the attention.”

“Jesus,” Jev says. “Fuck you, too.”

André visibly replays the words in his head and groans softly, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I didn't mean it like that. I just - you're really fucking intense but sometimes I feel like I could be anyone at all. And that's fine, if that's what you want, but I’d just rather you told me. You can't just expect me to read your mind.”

“How can I ask you for what I want when I'm constantly thinking you're going to change your mind about wanting me after all and throw it all back in my face?”

The words spill from Jev’s mouth before he can stop them and he flinches at the shocked hurt that floats across André’s face.

“That's not what happened,” André says, but his voice is uncertain, hands rigid at his sides. He reaches up to touch his forehead, then frowns. With a rush of fondness that hurts his chest, Jev realises he's pushing a phantom pair of sunglasses up his nose. André swallows, looks away. “If you just want me to be your casual fuck-buddy, then that's fine, you know? I can deal with that. But I need to know.”

“That's not what I want,” Jev says quietly. “You know that.”

“Then what do you want?” André asks again, and that rawness is back in his voice, the need laced through it that he can't put into words.

Jev breathes in deeply. The words catch in his throat. The table that splits them feels impossibly wide, a chasm. For some reason, his mind floods with the memory of the day he lost his seat at Red Bull, the heaviness of knowing that had settled into his limbs when Dr Marko’s name had flashed up on the screen of his phone. How he had expected to feel broken when the call had ended, waiting for the tears that didn’t come. How instead he simply felt free, hollowed out, a little braver than before.

He stands up, watching André’s shoulders drop as he crosses the kitchen floor. The kiss is messy, coffee sour on André’s tongue, but the feel of his body floods Jev’s senses until he’s light-headed. If he doesn't say it now, he knows, he won't get another chance.

“To be with you,” he says when they part, breathing against each other’s skin. His hands are already at André’s belt, creeping beneath the fabric of his jumper. The warmth of his skin sings against Jev’s palms, so unutterably right, spreading over him. “Properly, I mean. Not just a quick fuck or something we do when we're bored. I want to be with you.”

André pushes at him, backing him up until the small of his back hits the table and sliding his hands beneath Jev’s thighs to help him sit on the cool surface. Jev reaches up, already pulling André’s jumper over his head, his fingers curling in the soft cashmere. André is pressed against him, hot and hard already. “I've wanted you since the moment I set eyes on you,” he murmurs against the curve of Jev’s neck. “And I knew how to deal with that.” He breathes in, shaky. “It's always felt like enough, until you came along.” 

Jev allows himself to sink back, letting his legs fall open so André can lean over him more fully. “It won't be simple,” he warns.

“I know,” André says, and his voice is clear now, no hesitation as he meets Jev’s gaze. “Look what simplicity got me this weekend. Sweet fuck all.” 

Jev laughs then, can’t help it, giddy and giggling even as André crawls on top of him, intentions clear in the glint of his eyes. He whispers his surrender into André’s mouth and with André’s hands and the weight of his body pinning him down, all he feels is free.


End file.
